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February 27, 2006
TELEVISION COMMENTARY OF THE DAY:
Tremendous night of television. Like TV for smart people with taste. Must’ve been some kind of counter-programming to the closing ceremonies of the Olympics. Shame it only happens once every 4 years. Anyhow, the offerings included: Punch Drunk Love, A portrait of the Canadian singer-songwriter Ron Sexsmith (one of my faves), The Grizzly Man and The Shawshank Redemption. Speaking of the Shawshank Redemption: If I ever see another movie where Morgan Freeman plays a benign honey-voiced black man sacrificed for the white man's narrative, I'll kill myself. I mean, the fact that he has had so much success and can presumably call some of his own shots at this point and still (see Million Dollar Baby), serves this narrative function is really inexcusable. I want to see a movie where Morgan Freeman plays the baddest badass ever and sticks it to the man. I wanna see Morgan Freeman in "Kill Whitey."
Also, there's something a little bit annoyingly simperingly sentimentally infantile about Adam Sandler-even in this unsettlingly “serious” movie. A mumbling boodgie-woodginess and suggestion of the mollycoddled that never fully disappears-even in his fits of supposedly psychotic rage. But enough hyper-critical misanthropy for one Sunday night.
They're both, in their own way, very good movies. In a different mood, I'd be blubbering at the end of both of them, in a way that would make Adam Sandler even at his most baby-like seem like John Wayne.
COMMENT A PROPOS OF THE TITLE OF THIS POSTING:
I was reminded, upon watching some of the Grizzly Man again, how Werner Hertzog’s attitude towards the protagonist shifts appreciably over the course of the film. In the early part of the movie, the director’s narrative voiceover seems to suggest a certain admiration for and identification with this peculiar self-appointed guardian of the Grizzlies. Towards the end of the film, he seems almost contemptuously dismissive—regarding Treadwell as a deluded narcissist, projecting from the depths of his wounded psyche a dangerously sentimentalized view of the natural world.
REAL EXCHANGE OF THE DAY:
So, I’m talking to a guy from work:
ME: Maybe it’s the fact that I’m getting older, but periods of time that used to seem meaninglessly huge, are starting to feel approachably relevant. For example, my grandfather died a few years ago at the age of 99. And it struck me, that the Civil War was only grandpa’s lifetime and a half ago. And the birth of Jesus was only 20 grandpa’s lifetimes ago. And I just read that the island of Manhattan was under 100 feet of ice 20,000 years ago…which is only 200 grandpa’s lifetimes ago.
HIM: Wow…it was probably really cold then.
PROPOSED BAND NAME OF THE DAY:
Animal Husbandry
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
He was detail oriented, in a general kind of way.
BOOK THAT DOESN'T NEED TO BE WRITTEN:
A Guy's Guide To Vegas.
Right up there with "The Dummy's Guide to Being A Dummy."
HEADLINE I'D LIKE TO READ:
God, claiming he is sick of being spoken for, kills Pat Robertson.
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Posted on 2/27/2006
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February 25, 2006
DEATH AND PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING
Channel surfing my way past World Wrestling Smack Down on Friday night, I am stopped in my tracks by the spectacle of people crying. Big brawny men are bawling and blubbering “I miss you Eddie!” with a degree of theatricality that suggests artifice. But, if the “In memoriam Eddie Guerrero 1967-2005” graphic is to be believed, it’s part of a lavish tribute to a “real” wrestler who’s, evidently, “really” died. There is something jarring and rivetting about the spectacle of real grief in the context of a “sport” devoted to ostentatious fakery. Death is arguably the most unnegociably real thing. And professional wrestling is among the least. There is something completely compelling about the pairing of the two. Like the featured match in the Ultimate Metaphysical Smack Down I cannot stop watching; half-thinking this is singularly undignified, half- thinking that it’s strangely profound. (Oh yeah, and the third half of me expecting the “deceased” warrior to walk back out into the arena, miraculously “ressurrected” and ready to wrestle for the crown.)
KNICKS ACHIEVEMENTS OF THE DAY:
It took almost to the end of the third quarter before the Garden crowd started booing. Then, suitably chastised, they held the crowd boo-less until late in the 4th. So they've got that going for them. Also, let’s not forget, not a single Knick outsourced the security of our vital ports to an Arab nation.
SUGGESTION OF THE DAY:
Yesterday, I was thinking "Hey, if we're going to outsource the security of our ports, why don;t we just outsource the Presidency." But today I'm thinking, "Let’s not outsource the Presidency. Let’s just outsource the Secret Service."
DESCRIPTION OF THE DAY:
It was so hard to recollect and transcribe thoughts had in the course of motion, to summon from the worded rafters of the mind, the felicitous chosen phrases.
PREDICTION OF THE DAY:
Now that Bode Miller has been DIsqualified from yet another Olympic event, I think Nike will drop him as a sponsor and DQ will pick him up.
OLYMPIC CONFESSION OF THE DAY:
I was absolutely spellbound by the curling--my fascination undiminished by the fact that I had almost no comprehension of the rules and objectives of the sport.
QUESTION OF THE DAY:
The current tabloid feud between Donald Trump and Martha Stewart raises the question: Is it possible to imagine a feud involving 2 more unappealing adversaries? Maybe Bill O’Reilly and James Cramer (the obstreperously unattractive, aggressively unpleasant devil spawn host of CNBC’s “Mad Money” who stomps around gleefully touting “terrorism buckets,” “environmental disaster buckets” and “war buckets” of stocks by means of which investors can profit handsomely from mankind’s most grievous misfortunes.) Any other candidates? Oh, yeah, George Steinbrenner. Anyone else?
EXPERIMENT OF THE DAY:
When someone sneezes instead of saying “God Bless You” or “Gesundheit” or even a la Seinfeld “You are So Good Looking,” I think it would interesting to say “Ugh. What a disgusting habit!”
SPEAKING OF UGH: THE FUNNINESS-FREE REFLECTION OF THE DAY:
My feet have been really cold around my apartment today so I dug up a pair of Ugg boots that an old girlfriend had bought for me about 12 years ago. When I put them on (for I think the first time ever), I was hit by a powerful wave of sadness. I had memories of all the love she had offered me--love that I was for some reason unable to receive and return. I thought about how what we send is not always received in the time that we send it. I thought about the mysterious afterlife of our gestures of care.
WISH OF THE DAY:
I hope that the mustache's return to fashionability (thanks to Adam Morrison and others) doesn’t lead to a resurgence in the popularity of Adolf Hitler or, worse , Geraldo Rivera. (Ok, ok...just kidding on the "worse." )
META-COMMENTARY OF THE DAY:
This week’s anthrax episode in New York City was almost immediately identified as an isolated, self-induced, non-terrorist affair and reported as such on all the major news channels, websites and radio stations. Well, almost all of them. A while after hearing about it, I decided to check out Fox news. There, sure enough, was footage of men in Decon 5 suits exiting the building in which the exposure took place above a graphic banner that read “NEW YORK CITY ANTHRAX ATTACKS" with music so dire that anyone who had happened to turn there first would have gotten the fair and balanced impression that the terrorists had struck again and the world was ending.
QUOTES OF THE DAY:
Bill Maher, talking about the Christian religious group that uses the hallucinogen DMT so that members of the congregation can get closer to God:
“This is a really tough one for the Bush administration. On the one hand they love anything that has to do with Jesus and religion and on the other hand they are deathly opposed to any drug that doesn’t put money in the pockets of Pfizer.”
O’REALLY REALLY GREAT IDEA OF THE DAY:
Nicolas Kristof on the NYT has been raising money to send Bill O”Reilly first class to Dafur to learn about the genocidal atrocities first hand. Really inspired.
http://www.editorandpublisher.com/eandp/news/article_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1002035419
RANDOM PORTRAIT OF THE DAY: (In honor of the start of Spring Training.)
He was very imprecise with his speech. Listening was always an adventure. He had the highest ratio of words uttered to intended meanings conveyed. He was, in short, the Rick Ankiel of talkers.
P.S. OF THE DAY FOR THE SPORTS-REFERENCE CHALLENGED:
Rick Ankiel was a highly touted Major League Pitcher who suddenly and mysteriously completely lost his ability to aim the ball. His pitches would end up flying 10 feet over the batter's head or 10 feet to the left or right of the plate. It was an initially shocking, then briefly entertaining, then finally heartbreaking spectacle.
REALIZATION OF THE DAY:
If you need a footnote to explain a Random Portrait of the Day, you probably shouldn't bother.
CARTOON WITHOUT ILLUSTRATION OF THE DAY:
VIS: Two guys talking.
MAN: I was living outside of the relationship while it was happening but inside of it ever since it ended.
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Posted on 2/25/2006
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February 22, 2006
A few months ago (Dec. 5, 2005), The New Yorker had a cover showing a butch, cigar- smoking, beer-guzzling, hamburger-scarfing Dick Cheney reclining in a barcolounger while a wifey-looking, apron-sporting, feather duster-toting George W. Bush stands beside him looking lost and perplexed. While amusing and certainly in alignment with my politics (indeed I enjoy a good Bush bashing as much as the next left-leaning New Yorker reader), the cover struck me as an uncharacteristically cheap slam. Depicting the President (ouch..it still hurts to call him that) and his imperial vice as a dysfunctionally domestic top and bottom seemed a bit more Mad Magazine than Malcolm Gladwell. When I opened my mail box and looked at my new issue of the New Yorker last night, many of the same feelings returned. There on the cover was an image of Dick Cheney and George W. in jeans and cowboy hats engaged in a mock iconic Brokeback embrace. In addition, Cheney was blowing the smoke off his six shooter—an obvious and timely reference to his recent confusion of man and quail. I found the cartoon quite clever and quietly celebrated the flamboyant gesture of administration bashing, but I was struck, once again, by a sense of unease. It seems to me this kind of gratuitously emasculating parody is the last desperate resort of the political critic and it constitutes a flagrant departure from the magazine’s heritage of subtlety and sophistication. I do not turn to the New Yorker for broad burslesque or cheap political hack jobs. I turn to it as the one of the last bastions of intelligently informed, defiantly independent thought. I turn to it to see the hyper-articulate, passionately political Hendrick Hertzberg ripping W a new asshole with his pen. I turn to it to see W's deceptions debunked and his incompetence exposed. I do not turn to it to see him in a skirt. Somehow, it seems to cheapen the institution. (I’m talking about the New Yorker, not the Presidency). Not to be grandiose, but in some way it brings to mind the most compelling argument against torture: That it hurts the practitioner as much as the victim.
OK. I've probably overstated the case. But I think you get the idea. I think there's a longer analysis to be made of the way traditionally urbane journalistic institutions like the New York Times and the New Yorker that usually keep their editorializing very deadpan in tone have been seduced by the culture of comedic commentary (notably by the success of The Daily Show) into adopting a broader and more aggressively snarky voice. I think most journalists (like most everyone else) are frustrated comics and they just want to migrate to where the fun is. But in this instance, they do so at the cost of a certain unsettling inconsistency of tone and a certain erosion of intellectual and moral authority.
IDEA OF THE DAY:
While we're busy outsourcing the defense of our ports to countries in the middle east...why don't we just outsource the entire administration? Just a thought.
ALSO, WHILE WE'RE AT IT, A BRIEF NOTE ON THE KNICKS' TRADE:
The Knicks traded Penny Hardaway and Trevor Ariza for Stevie Francis. OK, now we have another ex all-star shoot-first point guard with a bloated contract in the backcourt. Nice. Stevie Franchise and Stephon Disenfranchise. Who knows? Maybe it’s just so perfectly stupid that it’ll work out.
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Posted on 2/22/2006
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February 20, 2006
A NOTE ON THE TITLE OF THE BLOG:
Digital napkins. The attentive among you may have noticed that I've changed the name of this blog to "Digital Napkins". Why Digital Napkins? Because I tend to scribble all my ideas down on napkins or other scraps of paper that then accumulate in my pockets and on all the available surfaces of my apartment waiting—often in vain—to be transcribed. In fact, I've long often considered publishing a little book (or having a gallery show) entitled 'The Collected Napkins of Teddy Vegas." Anyhow, this new name celebrates the fact that my napkins now exist in a new clutter-free, crumble-free, electronically transmissible form.
UNREASSURING ITEM OF THE DAY:
Just read that the Bush administration has given a company from the United Arab Emirates control over significant operations at six major American ports.
www.cnn.com/2006/politics/02/16/congress.ports.ap/index.html
The U.A.E., it should be noted, was a key transfer point for shipments of nuclear components sent to Iran, North Korea and Libya and was one of only three nations that had officially recognized the Taliban as Afghanastan’s legitimate government. In other words, it’s a country with immeasurably greater al qaeda sympathies than the last country we decided to attack in respsonse to 9/11. Anyhow, yet another of those Bush administration moves that sound so inconceivable and preposterous that they couldn’t possibly be true. And yet, are. And again, you just can’t tell how much of it is a function of blind corporate cronyism and how much of it is sheer, dazzling incompetence. So, great. while every nail clipper and tooth pick is being confiscated from old ladies at airports, huge crates of nuclear materials will be smuggled in by terrorist sympathizers in control of our ports. Geiger counter toting International emergency workers in lead suits will discover that, at the moment our great cities were destroyed by a nuclear bomb, thousands of men, women and children were standing in their socks at airport security lines dutifully waiting to have their Rockports examined for explosives.
STRANGE PHENOMENON OF THE DAY:
Don’t want to jinx it (or maybe I do), but I realized recently that I must have a miracle halogen bulb. It’s in a little halogen desk lamp and I have never once had to change it in 9 years of daily use. I don’t know whether to be deeply grateful for having the Hanukah halogen or a little bit creeped out as if I’d unknowingly slipped into eternity without anyone having warned me. Ah, the fine line between gift and curse. When I first realized I had been given the gift of perpetual illumination (in a desktop sense), I greeted it with analloyed appreciation. But it’s now reached the point where it’s starting to have unsettling metaphysical overtones and I’ll probably be very grateful once the damned thing conforms to the laws of physics and finally flickers out.
OLYMPICS OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
Have to confess to feeling a little bit of anti-corporate schadenfreude as I see each of the Olympic sponsors’ carefully selected spokespersons fail in their quest for winter gold. Bode Miller, Michelle Kwan, Lindsey Jacobellis etc. It’s as if the Olympics has taken a page from the reality TV show it keeps losing to in the ratings war and has fashioned itself as American Idol: The Search For The Next Bankable Hero. Needless to say, you watch as much in hopes of seeing a spectacular failure as in hopes of finding a true new star.
Speaking of Bode Miller, here’s what I wrote about his Nike ad a few days ago and forgot to post here:
AD CRITIQUE OF THE DAY:
I sort of enjoyed Nike's consummate anti-ad with Bode Miller. "Hi I'm Bode Miller. At the end of this ad there will be a website I expect you to either visit or not visit to either hear or not hear what I have to say." It's amusing to see the logic by which anti-corporate iconoclasm gets reappropriated by corporate interests as a way to sell product.
In any event: I notice that this ad for Bode Miller is no longer running much in the rotation.
NYT META-COMMENTARY OF THE DAY:
Speaking of Olympic failures: Did anyone see the photos in Friday’s New York Times identifying the crop of American Olympic disappointments? There was a pretty straightforward photo of Michelle Kwan and a caption indicating that she had to withdraw because of injuries; there was a nice action photo of Lindsey Jacobellis with a caption explaining that she lost a sure gold medal because of an ill-advised (and ill-fated) showboat maneuver at the end of her run; and there was a photo of hard partying Bode Miller apparently kissing a blonde woman with a caption that read: Bode Miller hasn’t had any success on the slopes. You could almost hear the rimshot. Very un NYT. But sort of nice. Since the NYT seldom quips or editorializes so blatantly, it’s hard to read the intended tone: Is it the reproach of a fussy little scold (“Tsk tsk he should have been chasing gold..but instead he was chasing blonde.”) or the admiring observation of a Maxim writer (“Yeah you go Bode baby. You know what really matters!).
OLYMPIC OBSERVATION OF THE DAY: PART II
I heard this Sam Waterston narration of the epic battle between Norway and Italy at the Lillehammer Olympics in 1994--a story of unknowns triumphing over legends, a story with a tragic death and an inspiring rebirth. I started by seeing the whole thing as a goofy exercise from the Monty Python School of Silly Walks and ended up with tears in my eyes.
A more detached voice in my head kept thinking "Wow, I guess they finally realized that the typical jingoistic America-centric approach wasn’t going to cut it…especially with all of the Americans losing. Our networks go to this kind of a story with all of the enthusiasm of the Bush Administration embracing the UN." Plus, I couldn't help thinking how the fact that this noble 1994 European agon took place against the background of the Kerrigan-Harding soap opera really highlighted the superficiality and silliness of our culture.
FASCINATING DEVELOPMENT OF THE DAY:
What’s with the guy Cheney shot in the face saying he was just so terribly sorry for all the trouble he’s caused. How? By putting his face in the way of Cheney’s bullets? Hey, let’s not fool yourself buddy. The Imperial Dick may claim to have been traumatized by the shooting but he also fulfilled a life-long desire to shoot a man—a desire that had been thwarted by his cowardly evasion of the military and sublimated into his obsession with hunting. But that aside: The veep shoots you in the face--mistaking you for a quail--and YOU apologize?? Damn. You really have to admire the way these moneyed right wingers stick together. I guess they’re just both so deeply, deeply grateful that nothing worse happened: Like, say, being forced to socialize with a poor person.
INDIGNITY OF THE DAY:
Last night I was awakened at 4. a.m. by a complete stranger making what could only have been a wrong number booty call. Bizarre.
CONCEPTUAL CATEGORY OF THE DAY:
The wrong number booty call.
THEME OF THE DAY:
Recycling.
VALENTINE'S HORRORS CONTINUED: SECOND THOUGHT OF THE DAY:
Realize I can’t continue with that Valentine’s nightmare story because it’s just too ugly. All I’ll say is the wife refused the crushed and severed rose and rejected the present her husband had brought for her. In response, he crossed her name off on the card and replaced it with the name of his older daughter. The 5 year old girl was thrilled to have the beautiful white gold past-present-future necklace…until the wife vengefully snatched it away and she ran up to her room crying and cursing her mother. Then, the man told his wife that even though she didn’t want her present, he still wanted his. She then handed him a shopping bag with an unwrapped Michael Buble cd and a chocolate bar, When he reached for the chocolate bar, the younger daughter screamed “No, mommy…you said that was for me!” Etc. etc. And trust me…it just gets too ugly to recount. Let’s just say that if it's true that comedy is misfortune that happens to other people, then this is really really funny.
QUOTE OF THE DAY DOING DOUBLE DUTY AS CARTOON WITHOUT ILLUSTRATION OF THE DAY:
VIS: One gay man speaking to another without irony while watching hyper effeminate American Olympic hopeful Jonathan Weir compete in the Men’s figure skating competition.
CAPTION: “Where has the masculinity gone in figure skating?”
ADDENDUM OF THE DAY:
Indeed: Where have the real men like Dick Buttons gone?
SKATING COMMENT OF THE DAY:
The woman figure skating commentator saying that “So often skaters wear such garish outfits and show such terrible taste…but it’s nice for once to see a skater wearing something elegant and simple.” Which is not noteworthy or interesting except for the fact that she was talking about a man.
Yeah, that’s where the masculinity in skating has gone. Shopping.
OSCARS UPDATE OF THE DAY:
BTW: back to a topic I wrote about a few weeks ago: Word on the street is that Race (“Crash”) and Gay Rights (“Brokeback”) have, as predicted, separated themselves from the more complex, less easily personified issues --Free Speech (“Good Night and Good Luck””) and Terrorism (”Munich”) --and have become the clear front runners in this great referendum on the relative merits of social issues. And the rumors are that Race just might win it down the stretch in an upset. If it weren't a matter of such profound societal consequence, I'd be tempted to say "It's all too exciting!!!!"
ENLIGHTENING NEWS ITEMS OF THE DAY:
Watching Calories Takes Commitment
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20060218/ap_on_he_me/fit_diet_monkeys
Eureka..
Jusitce Ginsburgth sole woman on Supreme Court
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20060218/ap_on_go_su_co/scotus_ginsburg_solo
Now when exactly did this become news?
FILM REVIEW OF THE DAY:
I saw a French movie at the MOMA called the “The Secret Child” that made Ingmar Bergman seem like the Marx Brothers. Exruciatingly slow and directionless immersion in the emotional life and non life of its subjects. Conceptually interesting, Experientially tedious.
NOTE ON SPELLING:
I experience at this juncture a certain ambivalence with regard to spelling. I was always a very good speller and an excellent student and a lot of my sense of self-worth was tied up with being both of those things. But now I often take it as a positive sign when I look up after a few sentences of frenetic keyboard tapping and find that I’ve screwed up some homophone (i.e. where/wear) like a 5th grade language arts laggard might do. “Wow,” I think. “There’s some part of me that’s in touch with something deeper than correctness! Woo-hoo!”
MUSIC-RELATED COMMENT OF THE DAY:
On Friday night I went to perhaps the least hip event in New York: A James Taylor tribute concert sung –with extensive between-song commentary—by a gifted James Taylor sound alike. I had been offered the tickets for free and, since I confess to having a soft spot in my heart for the earliest James Taylor albums, I figured “What the hey? Let’s embrace the uncool. With vigor. “ Anyhow, when I arrived I instantly recognized the performer as the guy who sang Jimmy Buffet songs at a Club Med I went to with a friend about 9 years ago. I really hate Jimmy Buffet (and didn’t exactly love the Club Med) so he had that going against him. Anyhow, he began to sing James Taylor’s songs, with striking sonic similitude. He went basically in chronological order, meaning that the songs that had the greatest personal meaning to me (“Sweet Baby James”, “Fire and Rain”, “You Can Close Your Eyes”, “Something in the Way She Moves”) were sung first. So long as he was singing songs that felt like some fragile and miraculously still untarnished remnant from my childhood, I really resented his commentary on the origins and meanings of the lyrics. I didn’t want to learn, for instance, that ‘Sweet Baby James” was about the color scheme of the baby nursery (“Deep Greens and Blues are the colors I choose”) where his older brother’s first child, (Baby James) spent his earliest days. “Sweet Baby James” was the first album I ever bought and its songs (along with those of Joni Mitchell’s “Blue”) had become the emotionally charged soundtrack to my parents’ divorce. I didn’t want my deeply personal relationship to these songs recontextualized by this guy’s folksily shared anecdotal input. Indeed, as long as he was singing songs from that period, I kept thinking ungenerous thoughts like: “Wow his voice is virtually identical to James Taylor’s, but there’s some ineffable something that’s missing. Something that I’d be inclined to call the soul.”. I also kept thinking: “You know, I didn’t think this was possible, but he’s singing these songs with a degree of slack mellowness that makes James Taylor seem like Trent Reznor.” And I kept trying to preserve my primal associations with the songs by not really listening to his commentary, but by thinking about other things instead. Things like “If they had to give a title for this show it should be called: An evening of James Taylor songs: Can’t you just feel the Absence of Funk?” In this manner I achieved the cognitive equivalent of putting wax in my ears. Anyhow, long story short, so long as what he was doing threatened to tamper with songs I really cared about, I was unreceptive and ungenerous at best. But as soon as it got into the post “Mud Slide Slim” period (like 1975), and I no longer had strong connections with any of the songs, I suddenly started to really like the guy and appreciate not just his unusual talent for mimicry but the anecdotal and biographical information he was providing as well. Point being: It’s easier to be generous and receptive and big-spirited when you don’t really give a shit. Yeah, once he got to the middle and later stuff, not only was I more receptive, but I actually learned some things. Indeed, the information he shared about the song “Mexico” provides a good example of the way too much information can irrevocably change the way you relate to a song. Evidently, he’d always been mystified by the fact that the lyrics say “Whoa, Mexico, it sounds so simple, I just got to go. The sun's so hot I forgot to go home, guess I'll have to go now.” And then “Oh Mexico, never really been so I don’t really know. Ohh Mexico…I guess I’ll have to go now.” Anyhow, confused by this apparently contradictory muddle, he asked James Taylor’s brother about the story behind the song. The brother (Livingston) evidently explained that his brother didn’t know you’re not supposed to drink the water in Mexico and essentially spent his entire time down there on a toilet. (“Never really been so I don’t really know.). Which gives a whole new meaning to “Guess I’ve got to go now.” Anyhow, I’m glad he didn’t contaminate my associations with any of my early faves with an anecdote like that. So what’s my point in this whole rambling reflection? I guess my point is that we vigilantly and tenaciously guard the things that are precious to us and don’t want to have them indelibly associated with things like diarrhea if we can possibly avoid it.
PROPOSED BOOK TITLE OF THE DAY:
“Autobiography of Someone Else.”
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February 15, 2006
KNICKS ACHIEVEMENT OF THE DAY:
They lost by fewer than 30 points to Dallas! (28). They had fewer than 25 turnovers (24!) and only 5 of them were 24 second violations. Plus, while their 10 straight losses marks their longest futility streak in 21 years, it is NOT their longest ever! So they've got that going for them. And, let's not forget, 12 different players managed to log at least 5 minutes on the floor and get a brisk aerobic workout--something studies indicate is good for long term cardiovascular heatlh. Finally, and best of all: No players shot a 78 year old man in the face with buckshot, mistaking him for a quail.
PROOF THAT I STILL HAVE A HEART: (A VALENTINE'S DAY HIGH-ESTROGEN MOMENT FOR VEGAS)
I turned on the Olympics at 11:15 p.m., just as this pair of Chinese skaters stepped onto the ice. I figured I'd watch for a few mintues, listen to Dick Buttons flex his exquisistely developed fault finding muscles and call it a night. I was in a semi-detached, semi-ironic state--hoping the experience would occasion some quip-worthy observation for my blog. As the pair skated to the center of the ice, the announcers informed us that they were in contention for a medal and would be attempting something that had never been done before in the olympics: A quadruple twist triple axel half gainer or some such. Less than 30 seconds into their routine, one of the commentators alerted us "Here it comes!" and, on cue, the man lifted the petite woman and tossed her spinning high into the air. Her quickly twisting body traced an elegant arc through space and then with consummate grace -BAM!! --smashed on the ground. There was a huge collective gasp as she spun inertly-and obviously hurt- across the ice and into the boards. The brutal interruption of the gracefully choreographed routine was shocking. The music continued to play as her partner attended to her--the two of them going through a globally broadcast medley of shock, shame, disappointment, pain, and grief. As they made their way to the side of the rink, the young woman was clearly in physical and emotional agony and her partner was trying to console her. By the time they got to the edge of the rink and consulted with their coach and the officials, the music had been turned off and we were all together--announcers, viewers, participants, competitors-- in this excruciatingly awkward Olympic limbo. The injured skater and her stoic partner continued their intimate (and globally broadcast) dialogue and the announcers were speaking compassionately of the heartbreak of their cruelly aborted dream...when suddenly the woman signalled that she wanted to finish the program. As people realized what was happening, a buzz ran through the crowd. I felt the hairs on my arm stand up. When the pair returned to the center of the ice, the murmur of excitement built to a roar The music for their routine began again and they skated loosely...going through the motions until they could resume where they had left off. The pair skated past the scene of the trauma (the soundtrack must have felt to her at that point like the theme from Jaws) and then, magically, instantly, in a single decisive stride, they exited the gravity-bound realm of messy misfortune and returned to the graced space of dance. I have to confess I had chills. And I even had tears in my eyes. The chaos of emotion, resolving itself in this courageous and redemptive act...It was really extraordinary. That they continued on to perform a wonderful program (indeed, she landed a lesser version of the ill-fated move) and emerge with a silver medal was almost beside the point. Seldom if ever have I seen the agony of defeat transformed into the thrill of victory in such an emotionally stirring and immediate manner. It was one of those moments that reclaims the whole triumph of the human spirit business from the province of cliche. "Damn," I thought to myself. " I still have a heart."
BACK TO EARTH:
Wouldn't it be great if the fellow Cheney had accidentally shot in the face while hunting quail was in fact Dan Quayle? Then he couldn't get off with the whole "I mistook him for a quail" defense.
QUESTION OF THE DAY:
A guy I know went into White Castle by himself and ordered about 100 burgers, 100 fries and 100 drinks for a big gathering. The person taking the order asked without irony "Will that be for here or to go?"
WORST VALENTINE'S STORY OF THE DAY: (PART I)
A poor guy I know who had a Valentine's night that felt like it was co-written by Larry David and Brian De Palma. Briefly: He hadn't been getting along too well with his wife lately but when she told him that she'd bought him a present, he scrambled to get something nice for her at the last minute--stopping at Zale's on the way home to buy her a lovely necklace with a three part white gold pendant which had "past", "present" and "future" written on the back. He also bought a red rose for her and pink roses for each of his two young daughters. Anyhow, he had to stay a bit late to work and got home a bit late. He rushed out of his car and entered the house, roses in hand, and a smile on his face. His daughters ran up to him excitedly and he presented them each with a pink rose. Then he turned heroically and handed the red rose to his beloved...only to discover that there was no rose on the rose, merely a stem and some garnish. His wife stared with horror at the headless offering...at which point he remembered the thud he'd felt moments earlier when he'd hit the three roses on the ceiling of his car upon his hasty exit. He ran back out and, after much, searching, located the severed --and now partially crushed--rose. When he returned...well, I've gotta run off..but let's just say that hijinx ensued. To Be Continued....
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Posted on 2/15/2006
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February 12, 2006
DICK MOVE OF THE DAY:
Just saw the headline pop up on Yahoo: “Cheney accidentally shoots, injures hunter.” I couldn’t help but laugh. The thought of this consummate schemer doing anything by accident is inherently funny. I also immediately wondered what the name of the other hunter was: Michael Moore? Al Franken? George W. Bush? (After all: Dick is one bullet from the presidency.) Also, it seems to me that these guys who are obsessed with hunting game in trapped, controlled environments are precisely the kind of sado-masochistic weasels who do everything possible to avoid serving in the military and anything possible to start a war. You don’t hear about battle-sobered veterans like McCain or Hagel or Kerry spending all their free time hanging out in duck blinds and stocked ranges. No, that's for Dick and his ilk (including the victim of friendly fire he mistook for an elk) who thrive on uneven playing fields.
SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
The draft dodging Commander-in-Chief exulted in the might of his military.
AD RANT OF THE DAY:
The new VISA campaign. Life takes Visa. Annoying, pretentious nonsense. And speaking of which: Enough with the Citibank ads. It was ok to be cleverly philosophical and anti-materialistic for a few months after the market cash and the events of 9/11. But not only are the executions getting cloying and wearing thin, but I really don’t want to be receiving philosophical reminders that life isn’t about money from my bank! That’s the one institution uniquely unqualified to be talking to me in this fashion. Making money for me is YOUR JOB! I could imagine tolerating this kind of thing from my coffee shop, my jeans store, my cola company. Whatever. But not from my bank. Thank you. Enough!
CULTURAL COMMENTARY OF THE DAY: BHL at the NYPL. (Actually of a few weeks ago, but I forgot to post it).
A friend invited me to join her to hear French icon/philosopher/ journalist/fashion plate Bernard Henri Levy speak about America at the New York Public Library-as part of their seasonal lecture series. I had been there with her on one previous occasion, to see Harold Bloom speak about Walt Whitman a few months ago. The two crowds couldn't have been more different-each reflecting the ethos, aura and aesthetic of the featured guest. Whereas the rumpled, corpulent Bloom's talk on the messily big-spirited poet attracted a mottled crowd of academics, artists and misfits (many of whom carried awkwardly folded newspapers and looked like they were wearing bathrobes), the handsome, elegantly coiffed French-tellectual attracted an extraordinarily good-looking, celebrity-studded crowd that looked like it had arrived from Barneys via Balthazar. Where Bloom's reading had no evident press coverage, BHL's (pronounced BAY-Aash-El) had a media presence befitting opening night at Cannes. It was half philosophical dialogue, half fashion show. In other words, it was 100% French. While we in the U.S. have no real sense of the intellectual as rock star (an idea almost as comically oxymoronic in our culture as the notion of a French rock star), BHL is truly like the French Bono. Dashing. Passionate. Bigger than life. Anyhow, I arrived and watched the crowd gather, heard various reports of celebrity sightings (Adam Gopnik, Lauren Bacall, Judith Miller etc.) and watched the hordes of cameramen follow an ostentatiously dolled-up blonde--dressed in a white haute couture jump suit and oversized 60s retro sunglasses--who turned out to be BHL's wife. Looking at this cartoon of glamorized sexuality, I couldn't help but think that the presence of a spouse like her completely undermined whatever moral and intellectual authority the philosopher might presume to have. Then, celebrity sightings over, he spoke--with a mixture of earnest grandiosity and uninhibited passion that was simultaneously insufferable and charming.
CASTANZA-LIKE MOMENT OF THE DAY:
Finding out that my boss wasn't coming to work because his son was being tested for some grave genetic condition (which, he happily, turned out not to have). Being torn between real heartfelt sympathy for my boss's predicament and real heartfelt gratitude that, since he wasn't going to be around, I could now take a much needed nap.
OLYMPICS OBSERVATIONS OF THE DAY:
I don't really get the whole luge thing. It seems to me nothing more than an extended excercise in butt flexing. Indeed, I was just watching it and I fully expected the color commentator to say “He tightened his butt perfectly there on the last turn…and now he relaxes it in the straight away...ok, into the next turn...tensing again perfectly...oh this is a triumph of glutimal maximal steering.”
Ohno stumbled. Of course, he did. Just look at his name. “Oh No!” Not an auspicious name for a competitor.
So far the theme of the Olympics seems to be Europeans getting revenge for our anti –internationalist arrogance.
ANALOGY OF THE DAY:
The Rolling Stones decrying the Superbowl censorship after agreeing to it is a bit like the democrats decrying war after voting for it.
EPIPHANY OF THE DAY:
I was recently forwarded an e-mail called something like “The Most Beautiful Sights in the World.” It was comprised of a series of stunning photographs with little identifiers” The Lavender Fields from France, Ice Floes from the Arctic Circle, The delta of the Nile, The Fjords, Some extraordinary castle from Russia, A monastery in Bhutan etc. As I watched the procession of transcendent images, I only had one thought: Ok, what's the punch line? Perhaps it's because I'd been conditioned by countless jokey group e-mails…or the general ironic, quip-addled tenor of our times, but I truly saw the this sampling of the world's most dazzling vistas as nothing but a huge set up for some kind of a quip. When it ended with a sincere reminder that we live in an amazing world and so we should remember to see as much of it as we can…it caught me by surprise. I'm not sure what was my stronger emotional reaction: Disappointment that there was not some laugh aloud visual payoff. Or shame about feeling this disappointment. It's sort of like we have (or I have) reached a point where experience itself is not sufficient without the supplement of commentary or comedy. At least any experience forwarded on e-mail.
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Posted on 2/12/2006
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February 06, 2006
Been a while, gang. Sorry to leave you all in the electronic lurch, but glad to be back. Ok, without further ado...some various and sundries.
MOST RIVETTING MOMENTS OF THE SUPERBOWL:
During the pre-game show, watching some pretty young thing interviewing Joe Namath. Watching Joe Willie struggling heroically not to let his eyes go all googly and blurt out "I don't care about any of this...I just...wanna.. kiss you." Rivetting, edge-of-the-seat drama. And I say this with the utmost respect and compassion for the Jets' immortal. While others ridiculed him for the infamous "I ...just ...wanna... kiss you" episode, I genuinely found it to be one of the most truthful and moving things I'd ever seen on television. After all, what is more tragically true and compellingly human than an aging legend reaching out to embrace youth and beauty one more time? Not a single moment of the football game approached this pregame encounter for sheer dramatic value.
And speaking of aging legends reaching out to embrace youth and beauty one more time: The Rolling Stones' halftime show. I mean, no doubt as a musical act, it's vastly preferable to the soulless product (and rehearsed wardrobe malfunctions) of Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake. And, yeah, for people on the cusp of AARP-itude, they can sure rock. But the whole spectacle just made me a bit uneasy. Yeah, Mick Jagger is a really well preserved 62 year old. But I'm really not comfortable with rating rock stars' performances relative to their age. There should be no qualifiers of the "...for a 70-year old" variety in the world of rock. And Jagger's strutting-preening-handwaving movements which used to exert an androgynous kind of sexual magnetism now bring to mind a chickeny old lady on a bar mitzvah dance floor cheering the cringing kiddies on.
One more memorable moment: When Aretha got to the phrase "The bombs bursting in air" in her powerful, pneumatically super-charged rendition of the National Anthem, they cut to a shot of Condi Rice in the crowd. I have no idea if the shot was motivated by the lyric, but it was a striking broadcast moment-- linking 2 of the most powerful African-American women of our time and two of the most radically different: Ms. Soul and Ms. Classical. (Or is it Ms. Soul-less?); Ms. "Do Right Woman" and Ms. "Do Right Wing Woman." (Or is it "Ms. Do Away with Rights Woman?")
As for the game: Really, not memorable. Too much of it determined by the refs rather than the players and by one team self-destructing rather than the other team wining.
Overall, the Superbowl is such a source of ambivalence for me. Obviously, I love the football--even though historically the games have tended to disappoint. But I'm talking about the ever more slick package the football comes in. Part of me really enjoys the ostentatious celebration of celebrity worship and empty consumerism. But part of me can't help thinking of it as a 3 1/2 hour recruitment video for Al Qaeda.
(Actually, a friend disagreed with this observation, pointing out that from an Islamic Fundamentalist perpective, none of these excesses are remotely as objectionable as the glimpse of Janet Jackson's ariola was. Interestingly, of course, that's what provoked America's moral wrath as well.)
OSCARS REFLECTION:
While we're talking about big, annual televised spectacles, a quick thought about this year's Academy Awards. One look at the Best picture nominations (Crash, Brokeback Mountain, Good Night and Good Luck, Munich and Capote) and it’s clear: This year, it's less about deciding what’s the most worthy movie than it is about deciding what's the most worthy issue or cause: So, will it be...a) The racial divide in our country b) The plight of gays in our still homophobic society c) The vital role of the media in a free society or d) The moral complexities of the fight against terrorism. The only film that doesn't explicitly address a pressing racial, sexual or political matter is Capote-but it makes the cut on the basis of two enobling incidentals: 1) the protagonist happens to be gay and 2) the film happens to deal with a case of capital punishment. Hard to know how to handicap the favorites because all of the aforementioned issues are worthy and fashionable. But one thing is for sure: Controversy is just SO in this year! It's not what people will be wearing on their bodies that people are going to be talking about at this year's Oscars so much as what they'll be wearing on their sleeves.
If I’m handicapping the field, I’d give Race and Gay Rights the edge over Terrorism and Freedom of Speech…as they’re more personal and immediate where the other issues tend to become more abstract.
LINGUISTIC ODDITY OF THE DAY:
"Cleave" is the only word I can think of that has two precisely opposite, self canceling meanings (to adhere to and to divide or split). Oh, wait: I forgot about "freedom" and "patriotic" as used by this administration.
Similarly, there';s only one phrase I can think of that has two contradictory meanings: "It's all downhill from here." Depending on the context it can mean it's all easy and wonderful from here (as in the hard work of peddling uphill is over and now we can coast) or that we're going to hell in a handbasket.
EPIPHANY OF THE DAY:
You know you’ve got a problem when a big bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream functions as your palate cleanser between dinner and dessert.
CULTURAL METACOMMENTARY OF THE DAY:
Here's a quick comparison of New Yorker film critics Anthony Lane and David Denby. After I read a Lane review I think, "Wow, what an artfully articulated and entertaining piece of writing. " But I have no real sense of the film he's purportedly reviewing. When I read a Denby review I think "what an earnestly clunky piece of writing." But I have a strong sense of what the film in question is like. This is largely because Lane subordinates the responsibility to inform to the desire to entertain. The film is to some extent merely fodder for a clever and engaging conceptual premise. Denby on the other hand—unburdened by Lane’s lavish linguistic gifts and conceptual aspirations—interprets his role more humbly: To thoughtfully communicate some sense of the movie in question. In Denby’s reviews, the movie is the true object of the article. In Lane’s reviews, the review is. This brings to mind, in some roundabout way, the apocryphal stories of the difference between Cicero’s and Caesar’s speeches. When Cicero would speak, the Romans would applaud vigorously and exclaim “How eloquent! What oratorical gifts!” When Caesar would speak, they’d stand up and say “March.” Not that I am really seeking to equate Denby with Caesar. (Hey, I knew Julius Caesar and let me tell you: David Denby is no Julius Caesar.) But Lane is somewhat Ciceroan in this respect.
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
That said, Lane spins out some great sentences now and then. Here’s one on the Danish director and agent provocateur Lars Von Trier (“Breaking the Waves,” “Dancer in the Dark,” “Dogville.” etc.):
“In truth, von Trier is not so much a filmmaker as a misanthropic mesmerist, who uses movies to bend the viewer to his humorless will.”
MORALLY-MINDED OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
Seeing these satellite Google maps of your home too early in life has a similar effect to a premature exposure to porn. It eliminates any sense that you are special. Your home, the place of your origins, is not some mythical realm unto itself, but a little patch of earth on a spinning rock, surveyed exhaustively by an abstracted, impersonal eye. Sex is not an intimate special act involving the intermingling of two unique bodies and souls, but an aerobic event involving readily interchangeable parts. Things should be lived from the inside for a long time before we are ready to see them from the outside.
COMEDIC PREMISE OF THE DAY:
When women gain weight, their breasts get bigger. Could you imagine if men’s penises got bigger when they gained weight? They’d never stop eating!!
Hey Rich: What are you up to tonight?
Oh, you know, eating...down at the all you can grow special. You?
Me too. You know it. Always got to be working on the penis!
You could picture these obese guys trying in vain to move their giant guts to see how much their penises have grown...but ultimately having to take it on faith.
SIGN-OFF OF THE DAY:
Just saw a pretty cool documentary on these guys who meticulously reconstructed the Kennedy assassination and reproduced the trajectory of the "magic bullet" with a single shot. I've always maintained (both out of a native contrariness and out of deep conviction that human beings aren't sufficiently impressive to pull off elaborate conspiracies...let alone to keep their trap shuts about them in this compulsively confessional culture all the way to the grave) that Oswald acted alone and it was nice to see some forensic confirmation of that.
That said, Zapruder and Zamboni are two of my favorite names. If I ever have two pets, I may give them those names.
And speaking of Zapruder and Zamboni, time to get some Zs.
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Posted on 2/6/2006
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