Category: ultrapersonal

This photo from the red carpet at this year’s Oscars captures two of my co-stars from my old high-school days. Eddie and I, as many of you know, have been friends for most of forever and some of our many actics include a short series of funny but also painfully crude short movies: “Mantra at Midnight,” “Mantra II: The Wrath of Fabric Woman,” and “Burning Pig” (the classic of the bunch). For Eddie, these were stepping stones for what was to become an honest-to-goodness film career. For me, these were proof that I should stick to the visual arts instead.

Although Gwyneth and I never grew close, we did meet a few times back when we were both seniors at exclusive Upper East Side private schools. She and her friends were going to put on a production of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown as a thesis project for their English class (or something like that) but since they went to an all-girls school, they needed boys. And when all-girls schools on the Upper East Side needed boys, they frequently came looking to my school. My pal Neil and I auditioned and were cast, respectively, as Snoopy and Charlie Brown, and I think Gwyneth was supposed to play Sally. I don’t remember much of the few rehearsals we had, but I do remember sitting in some other girl’s humungotron U.E.S. home and talking with Gwyneth, trying to remember why her mother‘s name was so familiar.

I think the girls soon realized that putting on a musical by themselves was a bit too ambitious, even for rich, well-connected, private-school kids. We stopped hearing from them after a few rehearsals, and eventually sent our copies of the script back through the little brother of one of them.

It was many years later, long after I’d pretty much forgotten about the whole thing, when I was reading an interview with Gwyneth that I suddenly realized I’d known her. It would be nice to say she’d left a huge impression with me, some sign of the inner star quality that would eventually nab her that Oscar, but mostly I had to struggle to remember any detail about the handful of times we’d hung out. I just filed her away as another skinny rich girl who I’d probably never deal with again, and then I went back to wacky, endlessly inventive antics of my own circle of friends, whose company was much more satisfying. Damn it! If only I could have known whose coat tails to ride.

Looking out of the window and down into the street, she saw the rush-hour crowds beginning to move towards the bus-stops. Soon they began to take on a human look, to become separate individuals who might even be known to her. This seemed a good deal more likely, though less romantic, in London than in Paris, where it was said that if you sat long enough at a certain café on the pavement, everybody you had ever known or loved would pass by eventually. Surely though, Catherine thought, peering down, it couldn’t be quite everyone, that would be far too emotionally exhausting.

Barbara Pym, Less Than Angels

Drub tapped me for another meme that’s been making the rounds. Since this is easier than figuring out what to write, and slightly meatier than just trotting out funny search terms, I’ll comply with my instructions.

You’re stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?

Well, I’ve already got John Waters‘ Crackpot half-memorized from years of reading it again and again, and since that would surely be one of the first books to go in a major purge, I’d have to choose that one.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

Constantly. At one time or another there’s been Alec Scudder, Hiro Protagonist, Joe Kavalier, Ponyboy Curtis, et al.

The last book you bought is:

If I don’t count trade paperback collections of comic books, it would be The Elements of Typographic Style by Robert Bringhurst, a classic of the genre I should have picked up a long time ago. (My last comics trade was volume 4 of John Byrne’s work on the Fantastic Four.)

The last book you read is:

Something to Be Desired by Veronique Vienne, a fantastic collection of essays about graphic design, culture, and stuff.

What are you currently reading?

Monthly doses of Metropolis, Wired, and an unruly list of comic books. I’m between books, although I just grabbed Room With a View from the bookshelf while going to double-check Scudder’s name in Maurice.

Five books you would take to a deserted island:

• The Bible. Seriously, I’ve been meaning for a long time to read it straight through, and a desert island would be the safest place for me to do that without strangling someone who can’t admit that it’s very infuential, very didactic, and frequently altered historical fiction.

• Robinson Crusoe, because the irony would be delicious.

• Low Life by Luc Sante, a personal favorite that would also let me indulge in homesickness.

• William Shakespeare: The Complete Works, because in the real world it’s really hard to concentrate on this stuff enough to enjoy it as much as I’m prone to.

• A blank sketchbook. I’d also want to do a whole mess of writing and drawing, or I’d go crazy.

Better late than never, here is my piece from last Tuesday night’s WYSIWYG Talent Show. This is transcribed from what I scribbled in my notebook at jury duty that day, so for the actual delivery you’ll need to check the video clip. And now, without further ado:

[ahem…]

Continue reading “Subway Smackdown”

Last night’s WYSIWYG — and this is no surprise — was another whiz-bang fun-fest. It was an honor and a treat to share a stage with such eclectic, charismatic, insightful talent. I think last night’s crowd also had the largest number of people I know (or bloggers I know of and would like to know better) in the packed house, which was even more swell. Typically, there was too much hubbub before and after the show to chat up everyone there, but even if I did I’d only be weird, nervous, and shy since I was so amped up on performance anxiety.

I got laughs when I hoped to, so I guess my piece went over pretty well. I wrote the whole bit longhand while I was at jury duty (waste. of. time.) yesterday, so it’ll be another day or three before I type the whole thing in and let you all see how expertly I recycled old jokes.

I didn’t manage to get any pictures of myself, but there should be video clips available soon.

Ho. Lee. Shit. I didn’t get to the movies much this year, so I’ve paid even less attention to the Oscars hoopla than usual. The show is on, though, and I’m here on the couch doing some work, so some of the details are sinking in. Like the fact that my oldest pal Eddie almost won an Oscar for Best Documentary Feature.

Wha…!?

I was barely paying attention as they read off the nominees, who were all standing on stage behind Leonardo DiCaprio, until I suddenly hear the name of Eddie and his partner, Kirby Dick. I was flabbergasted, and convinced for half a second that I heard wrong. When I visited Eddie this summer, they were still working on the film, so I didn’t even think it had been released yet. Sure enough, though, there they were standing on stage, smiling politely as the eventual winner’s name was announced.

Now, it’s a little disappointing that someone else won the award, but you have to admit that it’s pretty goddamn impressive for a goofy kid from Staten Island (and later Connecticut) to get farther than anyone else I know is likely to get. (No offense, everybody, but you can correct me when you get your Oscar nomination.) I’ve never been so happy to feel like such a wayward slacker.

Eddie, old cock, you continue to impress the living hell out of me. In case you check this before we have out next long-overdue chat, I love you to pieces. Woo-hoo!

I’ve left the country! No, not for good. But Glenn had a free airline ticket up for grabs and I have no job, so I figured I’d take a brief retreat to Montreal for a few days — someplace cheap and close where I can hole up in a small room or in coffeehouses without distraction from TV, constant internet access, and the damn cat. I’m trying to write up lesson plans for this next semester (somebody IS thinking about the children!) and make a dent in some tedious coding projects that always seem less important than a nap or Gilmore Girls when I’m at home.

The plan has been working so far, but I have a new appreciation for New York’s smoking ban. These Canucks really like their cigarettes, and my itchy eyes and smelly sweaters are the proof. Since I’m passing a lot of my time in coffeehouses, I’m surrounded by smoldering tobacco on all sides. Yes, smoking makes you look cool (Kids, I hate to admit it but it’s true — at least if you know how to hold a cigarette properly), but that shit really does stink. Also, lung cancer! Don’t forget the lung cancer. (This PSA was sponsored by viewers like you.)

Most of the time that I travel, I’m horrified by the idea of a city having a “gay village,” a place where all the gays hang out since that’s where all the gay bars, restaurants, and boutiques are clustered. Since the temperatures in Montreal are hovering somewhere above absolute zero, though, I have a new appreciation for the gay village phenomenon. It’s comforting to know that I never have to travel further than five blocks to find food, hot beverages, eye candy, or someplace to cut the rug for an hour or two. It may be an upscale ghetto, but it’s also a model for the kind of urban experience I like — a variety of services within walking distance, people who know each other everywhere you go (luckily, the gays barely notice you if they don’t think you’re cute, so the solitude of my retreat remains unsullied), and thriving businesses holding their own against the encroachment of big chain stores. Maybe the threat really posed by the gays isn’t to marriage after all: maybe we pose more of a threat to Wal-Mart and Starbucks.

I brushed a New Kid’s butt today. Well, not really, but I at least had an arm around his waist while posing for a picture, with a bit of a quick brush of the fingertips across the rump. When all was said and done, who knew little Joey would turn out to be the handsome and talented one?

My old pal Matt breezed into town today with his sisters, 4 tickets to Wicked, and a chance to get a backstage tour and a quick introduction to Joey and anyone else who might be around. As it turns out, the young Mr. McIntyre is awfully pleasant (and pretty hot) in person, and I honestly didn’t realize he could carry a tune that well. I always feel a little awkward in those meet-and-greet moments: obviously he was just being friendly to another random group of strangers, so I didn’t know whether it would actually be intrusive or not to make polite chatter while hanging around. To everyone’s credit, they were good show people who handle the public gracefully. When the schmoozinng was done, we sent out the stage door and into the midst of a crowd of adoring fans. For a moment, I entertained the fantasy that I was the cutest, most popular blogger on earth and they were all screaming for me, not the glimpse of the actors behind me.

Joey led us on a quick tour of the stage, which was pretty groovy. The sets and such for Wicked are…well…pretty wicked awesome, and I always get a kick out of seeing how all the props and set pieces get tucked away when not in use. I’ve been backstage at plenty of theaters of one size or another over the years, and I always love that look at everything when the lights are off and the scuffs and the illusions are exposed. If anything, it makes me appreciate the final effect of the shows that much more.

I’ll admit, I was pretty skeptical about Wicked after the snippets I’d seen and heard, but I was pretty charmed by the whole thing. The music isn’t great but it has a bunch of really nice pieces. I actually think I’d like more of it if the whole scale of a Broadway show didn’t require so many microphones on everyone: so much of the sound levels flatten out that a big moment is often as loud as a soft one, and in big group numbers you don’t have enough natual acoustic cues to help you decipher what sound is coming from where. It drives me pretty damn crazy, actually, and makes me appreciate good, unamplified performance that much more. But the whole show doesn’t suffer just because of a pet peeve or two of ime: it’s a smart story, told with some excellent performances and stagecraft.