Why Annie Leibovitz Deserves Her Bailout More than Goldman Sachs

Official White House Photo by Annie Leibovitz.

This is a such a good looking family. Granted, Annie Leibovitz doesn't have to work too hard with all the photogenic genes going on in that DNA pool...but, Leibovitz nails their shared warmth and approachability. Look how all four family members are leaning into the picture with their eyes. Watch out Tyra, I've just come up with lyzing! Please, please, please Keepers of the English Lexicon, keep that BS "smize" out of the dictionaries. The body language in this composition telegraphs an enviable unity, especially Michelle. She's got both girls in hand. This is a lovely formal portrait. I wonder if Leibovitz has any striking candids on any of the contact sheets. I'd bet 500 quid that she does.

Week 6 - Pittsburgh Steelers 2009

The Steelers are tied for first place with the Bengals in the AFC North. Fine. Not happy, but fine. Ben does not lie when he says there is still need for improvement. I'm giving the big side-eye to Bruce Arians for not establishing and sticking to the run, especially when Ben and the receiving corps can land TDs in such convincing fashion. I don't like airy-fairy teams. You can beat airy-fairy teams. A powerful running back and/or slick running scheme combined with a talented quarterback gives defenses fits. That's all I'm saying. For now.

Another area I'm not happy about is special teams. Last year, I dry-heaved when the Steelers had to punt the ball because the punt kicker was so lousy. You just knew that the other team was going to have more than good field position. Well, Sepulveda healed and is back to form. Now, it's the field goal attempts that are making my stomach flippity-flop, especially when we're on the road. Pittsburgh should have beat Chicago in Week 2, and Jeff Reed's whiffed kicks contributed mightily to that loss. I was shocked that he whiffed TWO kicks. That's not acceptable.

There's a report from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette that Reed got into another drunken scuffle on Sunday. WTF. Now, I know that Reed is a bit of a bon vivant (and by that, I mean drunky) and it's really not any of my business. It's his life, and he's old enough to accept responsibility for his decisions. With one caveat. Hangovers and the other negative physical effects of heavy drinking better not be the reason for the lack of leg in Chicago.

It is a well-known fact that I'm not the biggest fan of kickers. I can only think of two I actually admire. Obviously, Gary Anderson. I wasn't happy when the Steelers let him go to find a bigger free agency check. It's not easy to find a dependable kicker in the NFL, much less a kicker you can count on in big game, clutch moments. But, I just took a deep breath and repeated my mantra, "In the Rooneys, I trust."

The other kicker I truly enjoyed as a football fan was Kevin Butler (ironically, he played with the Chicago Bears). I don't have a clear sense of how good of a leg he had, but what I appreciated most about Butler was that he was a decent tackler...for a kicker. Born and raised in central Pennsylvania, I could tackle before I could walk. So, when I see pitiful tackles during games it only arouses disgust and scorn. Kickers and quarterbacks are the worst offenders. (The worst tackle I have ever witnessed was by Chad Pennington when he was still with the Jets. The opposing team was running for gold after a turnover, and Pennington made a fierce lunge at some invisible blocker five feet away from the person who actually had the ball. Pathetic.) Which is why during this year's draft I viciously questioned the validity of kickers:

Kindhearted commentator, probably Mooch: "Punters are people, too."
Me: "Yeah, but are they football players?"

I'm not an impatient fan who judges players based on "yeah-but-what-have-you-done-for-me-lately." I'm still rooting for Limas Sweed to step up and prove why he should be wearing black and gold for five more years, despite the tantalizing potential that is Mike Wallace (I'm already calling him 60 Minute Man.) If Reed has become less reliable because of a substance abuse problem, I fully expect the Steelers to demand a treatment plan to help him return to the excellent form we're used to seeing. If Reed's whiffing is due to a "case of the frat boy who can't let go of partying," I fully expect someone to correct that situation (and by that, I mean put a foot up his ass).

Best New Show THIS Fall - glee

g l e e

1. Jane Lynch
Hers is the best performance in Role Models. She always brings the amazingness to Party Down. She brought Ricky Bobby into this world. I've always wondered who was tougher: Christy Cummings or Dick Cheney (I think we know now with Cheney whining on tv more than Glenn Beck.) Now, I have the ultimate battle: Cummings vs. Sylvester. Damn. Tomorrow's brunch topic.

2. Sue Sylvester
There is no one more menacing or luminous in an Adidas track suit. I've got to admire anyone who can make people cry by just staring them down.

3. Emma
If I could get a man to agree to live across town, never admit our union, and expect zero sex, I'd get married, too. Last week's brunch topic-- Would Emma get it on with Will despite her OCD issues? The consensus was "Hell, yes. Horny + true love trumps crazy." Then, the conversation devolved into "Could she be a virgin?" and "How would she do it?" I'm still puzzling over it.

4. Writing
My favorite episode still is "Preggers." Kurt's coming out combined with the hilarious football dancing blows everything out of the water so far. I know football. My family knows football. If that actually happened on a field, it would be mindblowing...and legendary. People would talk about it for 100 years. It was just on the edge of believable. When your team has been that winless for so long, desperation makes you turn to extreme measures. Just ask the Titans.

Every episode is quoteworthy. For about a year, I've been stopping my boss in her tracks by exclaiming "But, Dad! It's Shark Week!" when she makes unreasonable requests. I do it for mundane demands, too. I can see her going down the checklist: not her dad, not even a man, what the hell is shark week, what does it mean, why does she keep saying it, and
is she being insubordinate. (Oddly enough, it has a similar effect on my pharmacist. He was a bastard during my recovery from dental surgery, and I'm the kind of bitch that never forgets. Never.) Now, I randomly throw out "Your resentment is...delicious." The "WTF" face lifts the burden of drudgery every time.

5. The covers.
More often than not, they're stellar. I downloaded "Hate On Me" despite iTunes' price-gouging fuckery. It's the only song I've been playing for the past three straight days. It just passed Nina Simone's "Feeling Good" and is creeping up on #1 Marlena Shaw's "Go Away Little Boy." It joins the list of songs I've mercilessly replayed for a disturbing amount of time, including the aforementioned Shaw ditty (dirty thing); Sass' rendition of "Mean to Me" (college thing); another Shaw tune, "Loving You Was Like a Party," (heartbreak thing); and the black vaudeville chestnut,
"(You've Got the) Right Key But the Wrong Keyhole," (grandmother thing). It also makes the list of songs that talk me down from viciously slappin' white people, including "Fight the Power" (college thing); "Man in Black" (daddy thing); "A Change Is Gonna Come" (Obama thing) and "Rise Up Shepherd" (human thing).

At this point, nothing will make me download anything from Be-dunc-ye. Not even Kurt, the boy who works angora better than Sandra Dee.

6. Its potential
There is so much talent, audacity and bounce in this show to launch it to a stratosphere of excellence that will result in the obliteration of America's celebration of mediocrity and blandness. Yeah, I'm namechecking Jay Leno.

Plus, its a tasty vehicle for TV viewers to use as a giant "Fuck You" to NBC.

Open letter to Jeff Zucker:
I'm going to ask you to smell your armpits.
That's the smell of failure, and it's stinking up my tv listings.

Is anyone else still mourning Brandon Tartikoff?

My Personal Moby Dick - MoMA

Picking through the bones...

I’m still cleaning like crazy as summer comes to an end. This critique of the sorta recent renovation/expansion of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) caught my eye. Until last summer, MoMA was my Moby Dick of museums.

Having a passion for museums and access to a cheap bus to New York, I’ve beetled to the city many times. Between the hypnotic allure of The Metropolitan Museum of Art (The Met) and MoMA’s inherent obstacles (long lines, inexplicable closures, etc.), my attempts to enter this shrine were always defeated by lack of time or will.

But, finally, I tamed the white, stony beast and wandered its halls taking in the Olafur Eliasson exhibit Friday, June 6, 2008. I was ultimately disappointed. I’m not sure it could have lived up to the hype in my mind, but my experience lacked a bit of the usual ZOOM POW! that occurs when I’m in a great space.

Reading Campbell’s critique from 2005 was a revelation. His main points of why the building is not a complete triumph:

“There isn’t any architecture.”

“There’s no parti.”

Campbell describes the galleries as “an endless rabbit warren,” which is true. It’s very hard to know where you are when traipsing through exhibits. The Museum of Fine Arts (Boston) has the same problem. I’ve been visiting the MFA repeatedly for years, and I’m disoriented as soon as I lose sight of the rotunda. This was my first trip to MoMA, of course, so a bit of directional wobble is to be expected. It still wasn’t pleasurable to be lost at MoMA. Not like it is at The Met.

53rd St. Display Window

And, the galleries really didn’t have flow. There was the Eliasson exhibit crammed in one corner; the contemporary representatives were stuffed over there; the masterpieces of Modern were jumbled in the turret; and the design watersheds were plopped next to the main points of access. It resembled a crazy attic of art that made me feel itchy and ready to leave.

“The air-to-art ratio is too high.”

Campbell points out that the expanded walls and ceilings have diminished the artwork whose intent was to dominate their space. I agree. Artists chose those huge canvases with regular gallery walls in mind. Now their “Fuck You” is just a faint raspberry in the din created by those gigantic walls. However, there is a weird lobby/sitting area on the second floor (I think) of gigantic proportions. When I was there, the space was well-used and cleverly defined by an Eliasson installation of a swinging fan (see video below). The fan swung in wide and unpredictable arcs stopping barging tourists in their tracks. I thoroughly enjoyed that, but I can’t imagine what fills up that space when special exhibits move on.

“There’s no daylight.”

I can’t speak to that as I don’t recall any lack of light. The Eliasson show was my targeted destination, and I headed promptly to his curation of the senses—the most prominent one being sight. His use of saturated light, strobes, and flashes stimulated and overwhelmed my eyes. I stumbled into a dark mixed-media installation by Sigalit Landau. Her installation encompassed two rooms of cool darkness, the perfect antidote to Eliasson’s visual landmine. It was also a stunning piece of work and definitely the best part of my trip.

Sigalit Landau. DeadSee. 2005. Video (color, silent), from Cycle Spun (2007). Image courtesy Galerie Anita Beckers, Frankfurt am Main

“It’s rude to the city.”

Well, I’m sure the city has been rude right back. It’s New York. Get over it. I had a Woody Allen moment at MoMA. How more New York can you get without body fluids? There was a line to step into some cube of mirrors Eliasson had set up to present themselves infinitely. I had to listen to some blowhard behind me tell his female companion that photography was all well and good, but he didn’t consider it art. I so wanted to turn around and slap him. Or, in keeping with Allen, to have Sontag enter from stage right and acidly explain his opinion was nothing but poseur bullshit.

“It makes Modern art into a period piece.”

Aaah. After an extended period of wandering and soaking up art, I sat down under that swinging fan. I had finally landed this white whale only to discover it was more bones than flesh. Fossilized. That was the word that floated through my mind. This is not the destination for those looking for brash energy and cutting innovations. I thought it was just me, but Campbell keyed on it three years ago:

“It’s revival architecture, a replication of the old MoMA at a larger scale. A considerable effort was even made to match the exact shade of white of the older museum’s gallery walls, in the manner of a preservation technologist on an archaeological site. An unintended message is broadcast: Modern art was then, not now.”

Yikes. Now, this lady captain must find another slippery creature to pursue towards the horizon. Varmint, is your name Louvre?

Robert Campbell, "What's Wrong with MoMA: Disappearing Architecture and a Sense of the Unreal," Architectural Record, 193, 1 (2005), pp. 67-69.

In My Own Quiet Way

Right after talking up “Random Roles,” the section decides to serve up the shittiest installment ever. David Duchovny’s on-screen careeer goes under the microscope, and they only managed to mention six roles: “Hank Moody,” Californication; “Mike Klein,” The TV Set; “Tom Warshaw,” House of D; “Bill/Gus,” Full Frontal; “Dr. Ira Kane,” Evolution; and “Fox Mulder,” The X-Files. Yikes. No Red Shoe Diaries. No Henry Jaglom. No Rapture. Double yikes.

What A.V. Club taketh, they’ll try to make-uppeth with other awesomeness. Oswald Patton gives a great interview where he makes a bold statement saying that current television is hitting it out of the park artistically. Hmmm. I double-taked at that one. All I see on TV is craptastic American Idol, irrelevant idiots so desperate for attention they’ll learn the bossa nova, and other atrocities committed in the name of reality programming. But, Patton sees Warren Beatty strapped in a chair being visually bitch-slapped by the U.S. government.

“Oh yeah. What’s really odd now—trust me, I love doing movies, but right now, television is the way Hollywood was in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. The dream era I would have loved to have been part of in Hollywood then is happening right now, but it’s happening on television, with these big complicated story arcs and real character-driven shows and sheer ambiguity left and right.”

Patton goes on to name-check or discuss United States of Tara, Caprica, Breaking Bad, Damages, The Venture Bros., Tim and Eric, The Wire, Deadwood and Battlestar Galatica. As Patton puts it, “Every genre is being re-thought.” I haven’t seen most of these shows, but I’ll co-sign on Deadwood. ( I miss you Al Swearingen, you stalwart cocksucker, you!) Notice that none of these shows are from the Big Three Networks. I’m not sure if Damages is from Fox or FX. Whatever. Fox still ain’t legit due to their paltry support of talent and for making Paula Abdul a topic of conversation.

Patton gives the best praise of The Wire I’ve ever read. Which is saying a lot because there are a lot people who lose their shit over this show.

“What’s brilliant about The Wire was, it starts out as a cop show, and just becomes its own genre of ‘This is about an entire city.’ It’s almost like…what did James Joyce say about either about Dubliners or Ulysses? If Dublin were ever destroyed, you could rebuild it from the books. If Baltimore were ever wiped out, you could rebuild it by looking at The Wire.”

Patton is comparing it to frickin’ James Joyce. That makes sense. I’ve never read him either. I’ll sit down with the opus that is The Wire after I wade through Ulysses. Isn’t one of those Joyce titles a stream-of-consciousness retelling of one guy’s day while he jacks off on the beach? Pffft. I flee from dead white male authors. Actually, they can be dead or alive. It’s the “white male” part that curdles anticipation. They’ve been in power for eons and writing/singing about themselves for nearly all that time. What’s there left to say after The Ramones?

Back to Oswald. The interview is given to promote his new movie, Big Fan. The film peeks in on the life of a diehard Giants fan after a tumultuous interaction with one of his football heroes. One of the film stills displays his character wearing a t-shirt proclaiming, “DALLAS SUCKS.” Dallas and NY Giants are in the same division. Ergo, they loathe each other. On the other hand, Dallas DOES suck. It’s just truth.

I probably could relate to this character on some level, but just barely. Let’s face it, the Giants are NFC and have only won two Superbowls—not SIX. Patton’s fan is described as a classic type of fan:

“In a way, Paul seems like he’s almost this old-school enthusiast, because it’s not the Internet or the Twittering or the text-messaging. It’s just flat-out, ‘I will go and worship this team in my own quiet way.’ Which is a very real way, but it’s almost a form that’s dying out now. Rob sees that type of fan sort of flickering a little bit.”

Well, I was raised in a traditional Black and Gold home. Daddy said you weren’t a real Pittsburgh fan until you punched a Cowboys fan in the face. My “confirmation” took place in the spring of 1977. Some chucklehead new to the playground (his dad had just been transferred from Chicago) was boasting about America’s Team (italics = sneer). Oblivious to the dead silence and a million stink-eyes being thrown his way, he kept nattering on about how Dallas was superior, one reason being their cheerleaders. Something about a dozen Farrah Fawcetts with pom-poms. Ugh. I was a raging feminist at the time as well as your typical Steelers fan. I sauntered up, planted my feet, and socked him square on the nose. I’m not sure if that is what Patton means when he says “quiet way,” but it works for me.

Patton brings it all back to the beginning by comparing his character to the protagonists of those films from the golden age of cinema, “I loved that about the script. It’s like a lot of the movies from the ‘70s, where they kind of embraced the fact that people don’t fucking change.”

Which brings me back to the shittiest entry ever for “Random Roles.” I raged for a weekend about the lameness of the Duchovny coverage. Finally, I went back and the first thing in the Comments section is from Noel Murray who conducted the exchange:

“I was given 15 minutes to talk to Mr. Duchovny, which I stretched to 20. Given time, I would've asked about TWIN PEAKS, RED SHOE DIARIES and KALIFORNIA.”

Aaah, so, Patton's correct. People don’t fucking change. Duchovny’s still a dick. I’m assuming there was some assiness being pulled by the subject. I could be wrong. He could be that busy (doubtful). Maybe we can go try a redo when he’s older, divorced and his career is in the dumps. Then, we might get some meat to this entry, and less gristle. I would love to hear his impression of the young Brad Pitt, and someone needs to confront him about the decade of Jaglom. Was it that or the soft-core porn (Red Shoe, y’all) that irretrievably damaged his ego? I’m betting on Jaglom because Mickey Rourke survived Wild Orchid (barely) and got an Oscar nom. But, Rourke has an ocean’s reserve of talent and doesn’t have to rely on looks and a nonchalant delivery of quips

Rainy Day = Arrested Development

Can I get some fries with that shake?

Damn. Now the longing for tater tots has sharpened.

Tropical Storm Danny is dumping water on Boston today. Or, heaven's crying as Peter opens the pearly gates for Senator Ted Kennedy (R.I.P.). Either way, it's highly unlikely that I'll leave my abode. Although some crispy tater tots are dancing in my imagination, so perhaps I'll duck out for a moment. Doubt it, but you never know.

How do you waste a perfectly good day? Jump into a marathon of Arrested Development! Watching the pilot episode confirms two observations.

1. No good comes from Dockers. Seriously, burn them if they are folded in your drawer or crumpled on the floor. They should only be used by professionals in the costume departments.

2. Michael Cera has an apple-bottom ass. It's high, perky and makes him quite full-figured. My detective skills in irrelevancy had first noticed this in Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist. (The book is way better than the film adaptation, by the way.) But, cords are so untrustworthy. Ask Larry David. He knows.

However, Dockers are so earnest and dull. They never lie. Henceforth, Cera shall be known as Apple-Bottom. Sweet Cheeks is also acceptable. For when I'm drunk and grabby.

Project Runway Notes (Season 6)

Last week, Project Runway debuted on Lifetime. Before the new season began, the producers staged an All-Stars challenge. Daniel, of the orchid blouse fame, won. I thought his collection was subpar. Korto should have WON. While I was glad to see Sweet Pea in the final four just to counteract Uli's smugness (when did she become such a bitch?), Uli's clothes were better designed and constructed.

Korto's restaurant dress was pure amazingness. That's the dress I would have thrown an elbow into somebody's face for. My second favorite was Daniel's red carpet dress. It was the best thing in his collection, everything else was not interesting. First, his clothes looked chintzy. Second, only 20-year-old stick insects could possible pull off that exercise/bike messenger bullshit. I think that's why he won. His collection was all about serving it up to youth, and THAT'S still fashion's number one bias. Size is next, of course.

Considering that two of the judges are wizened bits of jerkey (DVF and Nina), and Kors is far, far, far from his days of spring and roses--it was sad to see them anoint Daniel as the winner. Ugh. Korto, my Korto---where in the world can a girl pick up your clothes line, because you ain't nothin' but fierce!

After that bitter beginning, the REAL Project Runway kicked off. They had to design a red carpet look for The Most Prominent Crackhead This Side Of The Atlantic. Christopher won with a cutesy yet smart dress. No problem with that decision. The two on the chopping block were Ari and Mitchell. Ari got the boot. Her clothes were ugh-worthy, but I think she really got kicked off because of her striking resemblance to The Most Prominent DJ Enabler This Side Of The Atlantic. Mitchell didn't finish his dress and basically sent his model down the runway in a sheer shift with a nifty collar.

I tried to watch the half-hour Models of Project Runway afterwards, but the immense stupidity or staggering vapidness sent me off to dreamland. I hope that piece of crap is available with Comcast On Demand. It's an extremely effective soporific, better than any Valium. There are a couple of shitty models who can't walk this season. You know, I don't think this show is necessary. These girls already get enough slobbering attention from modelizers. Let's not promote that an empty head is the epitome of female beauty. Seriously, none of these twits are disabusing the notion that models are S-T-U-P-I-D.

Last night's episode was infuriating. The designers had to dream up a maternity look for Rebecca Romijn. Shirin won with a lovely, thoughtful and compelling design. The waist detail and the elegant coat nailed it for her. The judges hit it on the money with that one. The two singled out for being the most wrong were Malvin and Mitchell (again). They sent Malvin and his literal egg idea out the door. Yack! What the f*#%! I didn't have a major problem with his sling thingy. OK, fashionistas might not want to rock it, but I can see a couple crunchy vegans rolling around town in it. It was a hell of a lot more interesting than Mitchell's boring t-shirt, shorts and stretchy cardigan (YAWN). On top of that, Mitchell's sewing is utter crap.

I'm ready for Mitchell to go. His designs don't sparkle, and his bitchy feyness is working my nerves. Especially when he's passive aggressively throwing shade towards designers with real talent. Stay away from him Ra'Mon. That bitch will undercut you at every turn. For some reason, I suspect Mitchell is a producers' favorite. Because they should have bounced his ass out of there last night. But, he's still there to annoy and offend the eyes next week.