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

Bitching Out Bette Midler

I used to work at the best Boston bookstore ever. Waterstone's used to occupy a lux brown castle on the corner of Newbury and Exeter, smack dab in the Back Bay. (Currently, a munchkin horde wreaks havoc there during school hours. GET OUT!) It was three and a half floors of pretentious book-y heaven.

There was a ridiculous lobby that served no purpose. The other three levels were outfitted in ruby red carpets, and black wooden shelves; green banker lamps at workstations glowed here and there. Books were stocked on the shelves and matching tables; the tables were tucked into each section's bay. Each floor had a check-out area and a separate information desk. The first floor was fiction, which can go suck it as far as I'm concerned. Not terribly interesting, and the layout was fakakta.

On the second floor, we kept the prosaic non-fiction for hobby lovers and those who want to earnestly get it right, like parenting, self-improvement and other blah-blah subjects. Art, photography, music, and pop culture were lovingly tended there, too. Children's books were stashed away in a cozy pirates' nest accessed by a tiny flight of stairs--the better to hide the frickin' mess created by spoiled brats ignored by their up-their-own-ass parents.

Brilliant books about "important" subjects sneered at the ignorant on the third floor. Science, history, and foreign languages are examples of what looked down from lofty shelves at the sunny, quiet floor. This floor had the most natural light, which fell through a giant circular window. I can't remember if it was stained glass or not. Methinks not. Maybe just tinted? It also had the best layout because readings were held up there and there was a lovely stretch of space for lounging with all the great books you found during browsing.

I say great books because the title selection was amazing. Of course, a booklover is going to enjoy the store because of the lush appointments dictated by a British sensibility (Waterstone's is a UK-based chain). But, if you hit the right section, you'd be delighted by the depth and piquancy of its array. For example, the lit crit section kicked ass thanks to Mr. JL. Before I started working there, I already knew about the section. (This is Boston. Three things its denizens know: books, beer, and the Red Sox.) My mom (poetry nut) and Harvard professors had name-checked it, so Lit Crit had mad cred, yo.

However wonderful the experience was for booknuts on the browse, working at Waterstone's was much more glorious. The place was 98% staffed with Americans (there was this quasi-Australian who skeezed around with a wine glass and a fake tan), but enough of the British ethos reigned to ensure that the break room was always stocked with booze. It was a chain, but it wasn't run like most American versions. The booksellers bought titles for their section. That's why the title selection was fierce for certain sections. If the subject was properly matched with a knowledgeable but still curious staffer, the results were stellar.

As I said, fiction was on the first floor. Fiction is for lemmings, so it was the busiest floor. Plus, a lot of people couldn't figure out how to get off the first floor. So, they'd circle endlessly until they either gave up (with a massive pile of NYT-bestselling crap), or they would ask one of us. To refresh, we had a useless lobby (it was the retail equivalent of a Victorian folly), which was counted in the English way--ground floor. People entered from the street and were immediately confronted by glassed-in displays and a flight of stairs to the right.

The stairs lead to the first floor ("But we're in America, why can't they call it the second floor? It's so confusing."), but the steps end right there. They do not keep ascending to the upper levels. As shoppers turned to their left, they would look across a seemingly endless floor of tables heaped with books. Far off in the distance, bookshelves lit with green lamps beckoned with even more books. Thinking back, it was rather dazzling. Does it excuse the stunning stupidity of the typical American consumer? Not to my bitchy eyes, but I'm not a nice person. (Niceness. So fucking bourgeois. And pointless. Just be bloody civil, and the world will work.)

There were two ways to move up and down my beloved Waterstone's. There was the lift/elevator option. But, it was hidden very well by its placement to the far left. Retail workers know that shoppers move forward or to their right. So, lovies either walked down the red carpet in front of them, or they drifted off to the wall units closest at hand. The red carpet led to FICTION (aka pompous waste of time), which hugged the majority of wall space. The lemmings would just stick to the wall until they found themselves back at the stairs from whence they sprang. Repeat the circle. Wander a bit. "The guidebook says it's three floors, honey. I swear." Repeat the circle. Furrow your brow. Repeat.

The registers were located alongside the red carpet on the left side. We booksellers had brass railings and small display fixtures behind us, and our money-collecting machines in front. The registers squatted on a long counter picked out in black wood, with artfully arranged tomes. During slow periods, the booksellers would sit there and watch bewildered customers circle, circle, and circle. When enough dopes were stuck in the loop, someone would call out "Derby Day, folks. Place your bets." We bet on who would be the first to break off and get directions to end their dumbassed-ness.

Poor things. When someone did ask at the counter, all they got was smug archness. I was the worst. In a level voice but infused with disbelief, I'd calmly ask them to turn around and look directly behind them. There, they would then perceive a rather large stairway looming over them. A modest flight led to a platform hovering at eyeline, but then branched off right and left adding that much more access to the second floor (third, for the Yanks). Embarrassment, stuttering and shame ensued on their end, and dismissive contempt followed on mine. Other booksellers would be nice. Not me. It was clear I thought they were fucking idiots. Jennifer (the fairest bookseller in all the land) was the best.

Stuttering dumbfuck: "Oh my God, how did I miss it!? You must think I'm an idiot."

Jennifer: "No, not at all. You'd be surprised how many people don't find the stairs."

"I am."

"Every day."

She'd deliver this with a sincere smile but very dry beats. It should be noted that she was gorgeous with great hair. The only tell to her mockery were her eyebrows. They underscored the faint lilt of scorn in her voice. The dumbfucks would walk away puzzling over whether she was dicking them or not. Ultimately, they would decide "nay." She was too pretty. Dumbfucks.

Not that this has anything to do with Bette Midler. I think I had risen to the heady prominence of Senior Bookseller, and I was monitoring the first floor registers and the staff ringing on them. It was a busy afternoon, and I saw in my eye's corner that a petite blonde had strayed behind the register counter. She was fiddling around with one of our fancy displays. Immediately, I swung round and sternly scolded the blonde that she was in an area for staff only, and she needed to hustle it right out of there. She daintily apologized and vamoosed.

It happened so fast. My territorial instinct just lashed out. (The same instinct that starts bar fights, ruins Rottweiler puppies and shrinks men's balls.) I didn't recognize her before starting my verbal bitchslap. But, mid-slap it dawned on me that I was barking at the Divine Miss M. Lawdy, lawdy! I didn't give ground. Not that it mattered as she was definitely the more gracious of us two. Here's what I observed:

• She's tiny.
• She actually moves with that mermaid shuffle of hers.
• She has lovely manners.
• Did I mention how tiny she is? Teensy-weensy tiny.

I was left with a just-hit-in-the-face-with-pie look on my mug. I had to sidle over to a co-worker, and ask if I had just yelled at Bette Frickin' Midler. She did end up making a purchase while I was still on watch. She paid with a credit card. I watched those itsy-bitsy shoulders flutter out the door, and promptly snatched up her signature receipt from the drawer. I never wanted to forget the day I bitched out Bette Midler in the best Boston bookstore EVER!

Still Missing Sweet Dick Willie After All These Years

Robin Harris, 1953 -1990, R.I.P.

A tantalizing article in the LA Times alerted me to the upcoming 20th anniversary for Spike Lee's Do The Right Thing. Has it been that long? The article describes the obstacles faced by Lee trying to secure financing. I like how he gives a shout out to Tom Pollock and says that Pollock is the film's unsung hero. It also details some of the ignorant nonsense that Lee faced by the critics because they assumed black people would lose their minds and burn theaters down after viewing his flick:

"In his review in the June 26, 1989, issue of New York magazine, David Denby said that 'the end of this movie is a shambles, and if some audiences go wild, [Lee's] partly responsible.' Jack Kroll in Newsweek called the film 'dynamite under every seat.' "

And, these were the film critics! I don't think anyone is surprised when the money men and people with green-light power seem like narrow-minded fuckos who have jumped up their own asses. In theory (or am I naive pickaninny who's fresh off massa's plantation?), critics should be displaying thoughtful consideration in their writing while informing by using context and a broader knowledge of the world and film history. I don't know that actually ever existed in reality. At best, an honest opinion was delivered succinctly and distinctions were made between fine art and pure enjoyment. Now, Ben Lyons is inflicted on the public and fanboys rule the blogs. Feh. But, I digress. The topic is the miracle that was the release of Do The Right Thing 20 years ago.

To celebrate the anniversary, Universal Pictures is releasing a two-disc DVD that includes new commentary by Spike Lee, more documentary footage, and an oral history of the film's making as remembered by crew and cast. I'm a slut for oral histories, so this new edition of the DVD immediately makes my birthday wish list. The list of people speaking about the film is impressive, but the three standouts for me are Spike Lee, Rosie Perez, and Ernest Dickerson.

I like that Lee always has something to say and he's one of the last directors who can successfully translate that opinion into a provocative visual statement. Lee always brings it visually, but I find that his dialogue wins or loses depending on the actors delivering it. (I just realized that Annabella Sciorra annoys me no matter what she does.) The person who delivers Lee best is Lee himself...Denzel is damn close, but, Spike is king of his own material. I will admit that sometimes Lee has the ability to talk out of his ass, but sometimes a great improviser is going to FAIL. But, it's worth it to show up and keep an open mind.

Rosie Perez has one of the best voices ever. I would consider it an honor to be cussed out by this woman. It's not a surprise that people want to hear her say "Mookie" over and over. She should make a ringtone of her raggin' him, sell it on iTunes and count the sheckles as they drop into her bank account. I don't think it's her accent that mesmerizes me. It's the combination of tone, breath, how she hits certain beats--just like a great horn player, by the way. And, that's just the aural effect. Pair that with her eyes and the formidable body language she uses as a former dancer. She could have been born in Minsk and she'd still bitchslap people with that voice and stance.

I'm also a slut for the deft use of saturated color and bringing weight to light. This film perfectly transmits the simplicity and languor of summer, while simultaneously conveying the body-blocking oppression of city heat. So, my back will straighten and my eyes will widen when Mr. Ernest Dickerson, the cinematographer, comes onto screen. I only have loonie lurve for what this man accomplished with this film (and Mo' Better Blues and Malcolm X). The same feeling clouds my mind when I remember my first Crayola 64 box from the first grade.

As well as the three above, there are pithy insights provided by Danny Aiello, John Turturro, Martin Lawrence, Giancarlo Esposito, Chuck D (!), and more. To place the film in context, it busted loose around the time of Driving Miss Daisy and sex, lies and videotape. It's mentioned that Daisy's triumph at the Oscars still stings for Spike and Danny. And, the article's author takes a swipe at s,l&v. I can only shrug about that. (The Oscars first pissed me off when they blessed Ghandi over E.T. And, then the fakakta decision to award the piece-of-shit-directed-by-THAT-MAN over Goodfellas?) The Academy rarely gets it right. Slumdog? Bitch, please.

Another reason I find this film a classic is that it delivers one of the best hell-raising anthems ever: "Fight the Power" by Public Enemy.  I can't imagine a day when the dissonant clanging that propels the beat won't get my ass up and moving.  And, Public Enemy has one of the best vocalists of the Eighties.  Chuck D. is unique to my ears because he delivers his rhymes in a 'singerly' manner.  With Terminator X's bombastic cacophony literally blowing up behind him, Chuck D.'s voice has to be strong and disciplined, but that iron is wrapped in throaty velvet.  It's like Billy Eckstine woke up enraged one night, sheared off his conk, and joined the revolution.  Plus, I'm going to love any song that drops black history, says f.u. to Bobby McFerrin, and calls people to rise up in one breath, but doesn't let them forget how to party in the next: 

Cause I'm black and I'm proud

I'm ready and hyped plus I'm amped

Most of my heroes don't appear on no stamps

Sample a look back you look and find

Nothing but rednecks for 400 years if you check

Don't worry be happy

Was a number one jam

Damn if I say it you can slap me right here

(Get it) lets get this party started right

Right on, c'mon

What we got to say

Power to the people no delay

To make everybody see

In order to fight the powers that be

And, of course, the film features Rosie Perez jerking, jabbing and popping in the opening while this song rolls.  Damn!  It's far more sexier than anything Beyonce attempts in her recent videos (if Lah-Dee-Dah Knowles jerks much harder, I swear a titty is going to fly off).  

Finally, the film features Robin Harris as Sweet Dick Willie.  Those three men sitting around a cooler and shooting the shit always reminds me of my childhood home.  I didn't grow up in a city, so people didn't park themselves right out on the corner in lawn chairs.  Our old-time gents loitered in the town's pool hall or on other people's porches.  But, Willie, in particular,  reminds me of my grandmother because she always used to say: "Ain't no dick on this Earth THAT SWEET or THAT LONG, make me put up w' that bullshit."  (My love of baking cookies and knitting did not come from her.  Nope.  From her, I get my withering evil eye and an ability to shake a tailfeather.)  So, just hearing the moniker "Sweet Dick Willie" gets me sentimental and in the mood for whiskey.  

Eventually, I'm going to put on Harris' comedy album, Bé-Bé's Kids, and fall out laughing from "Gonna Change/Spare Change" and "Piccolo Player."  "Piccolo Player" is my favorite part because Harris' delivery is almost a song, but my father's belly laughs come rolling out for "Gonna Change/Spare Change."  My father loves that line, "I'm gonna do the...RIGHT thang!" It is a response to the question of how success is going to affect the comic.  Harris puts a walloping emphasis on "right" and manages to do two things.  One: he nods to the film that helped propel him to that success.  Two: he asserts his self-interest as the number one priority and subverts the film's internal debate.  As my family interprets that line, it's about preserving his black ass.  He's not going to end up like Radio Raheem in the film, which brings me back to the commentary included in this anniversary DVD.

There are so many issues in this film that could inspire dialogue, debate, argument and shooting the shit.  Even how the questions are framed leads to substantial discussion.  "Should Sal hang pictures of black heroes in the pizza shop?" is very different from "Why doesn't Sal hang pictures of black heroes in the pizza shop?"  When I first saw the film, my reaction was to focus on the actions of the police.  The death of Raheem generated within me feelings of sorrow, helplessness and bitter resignation.  I don't remember questioning the mob losing their shit and tearing stuff apart until after leaving the theater and talking with others.  Spike Lee sums it ruthlessly in the commentary:   "It disturbed me how some critics would talk about the loss of property -- which is really saying white-owned property -- but not the loss of life."  

The film is 20 years older.  I'm twenty years older.  And, so is America.  How will this film stand against recent history?  I'm not just referring to Obama (Didn't the Obamas see this on their first date?).  Rodney King, O.J. Simpson, NYPD, Hurricane Katrina and the Jena Six will be in the back of my mind, too.  What will be my response now?  Do The Right Thing was loaded with provocation in 1989.  Is it still brimming with a power and vitality that scared the bejeezus out of some people?  I predict that the film is still a hot, sweaty mess refusing to be invisible or voiceless.   

Lawnmowers & Fishing

Oh no. It's on ESPN, so I have to take the Favre rumours seriously. As long as they were on SI, I could ignore it. They're just catty bitches over there. But, ESPN. That's for real. They've posted one of their nifty polls asking what Favre will be doing this upcoming NFL season.

Poll Options:
Suiting up in the NFL
Calling NFL games as a color commentator
Fishing in Mississippi

I chose fishing. Born and raised in W. PA, my heart and soul belongs to the Black & Gold (country song!). However, we did live in Green Bay, Wisconsin for a time. That is football country, y'all. I respect that. I could never live there again. But, I will travel hundreds of miles out of my way to taste the miracle that is Storheim's frozen custard. Oprah likes Kopp's, but I find them subpar. Of course, the secret is that Storheim's is made fresh on the premises. I still dream of the day we bopped in and the special flavor was Kiwi Champagne. Let the masses have their Rocky Road or Maple Pecan, I still remember your barely-there tint and fruity piquancy. We may not have been destined to be together long in this world, but on a clear day, you can see forever... Wait, this is about football.

My mother is from Wisconsin, so she's a fan of the Green Bay Packers. And, she never rooted harder than when her beloved Brett Farvey threw the long bombs at Lambeau. I lurve me some Favre, too. If you love football, you can't help but love Favre. He plays just like every kid who couldn't resist a quick pick-up game, even though you're in your Saturday best and your daddy's gonna kill you if a speck of dirt gets on that pinafore.

It was beyond weird, awkward, unsettling and disturbing to watch Number 4 quarterback for the Jets last year. I imagine it's like sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with your dad who has just married one of your high school friends. You can't slap anyone; you can't barf on the table; and, you haven't been excused from the table. If Mommy hadn't been such a shrew (that's you, Ted Thompson), Daddy wouldn't be slummin' it in green and white. So, you just sit there hoping dinner will be over soon, and you'll be able to wash this taste out of your mouth with some Iron City beer at home. I'm not even a diehard Packers fan! Gaah!

But, then Daddy put down his big city tramp and returned to ride that lawnmower into the sunset. The world was right, and stuffing was safe to eat again. Now, there's talk of Favre zooming up to Minnesota to once again gall the eyes. OK, last time was Mommy's fault, so I behaved. This time, I'm stabbing people with the carving fork and pissing in the cranberry sauce. Have seconds, Minnesota and North Dakota.

Poll Results:
Suiting up...31% (MN & ND)
Calling games...9% (people who know nothing)
Fishing in Mississippi...59% (me and the rest of the kids)

Equality Marriage Update

An article in the L.A. Times predicts that equal marriage will reign in Maine by the end of the summer. New Jersey and New York will soon be the first Mid-Atlantics to join the party. It also posits that New England's ball of momentum has stirred up activity in Maryland and Hawaii, too.

Ah, Hawaii. In 1994, I thought that Hawaii had made gay marriage legal. I wouldn't believe otherwise until my gay uncles confirmed it. I was so sure. My greatest strength and affliction is how I know it all. I am always right...except once a year. It proves I'm human, and according to my friends, the look on my face is worth all the other 364 days of the year. So, I'm great in debates and trivia games--but a tad obnoxious at cocktail parties. Fast forward to 1999.

I'm rolling my eyes at some straight guy who is talking about the rise of gays and lesbians in popular culture. Mr. Blowhard isn't exactly down with it, and questions the statistic that gays and lesbians make up ten percent of the population. He doesn't think it's 1 in 10. I said, "Right, dummy. It's at least 3 in 10." He scoffs, and I dig my mule feet in. We're going back and forth loudly for about 10 minutes. Finally, someone points out that the phenomenal gay and lesbian talk show on WFNX is named "One in Ten" and maybe there was a reason why.

That stopped me in my tracks, and I had to concede. To save face, I dramatically shuddered and pronounced, "Ugh. The world does not need that many straight people." And, I was giving the blowhard the up-and-down over my shoulder to let everybody know why. That was the night I met my bestest gay friend. He had to chat up the loud bitch in the corner denouncing her straight brethren. Two martinis later, we were bonded for life.

By the way, I didn't believe that statistic (1:10) then, and I don't believe it ten years later. I still say it's 3 in 10, minimum.

Why NY Is Better Than Everybody Else - Reason No. 1

Nobody else has Bill Cunningham. Sometimes, he gets loaned out to Paris, but Mr. Cunningham always returns on a hot foot. He has another one of my dream jobs. He trots around Manhattan photographing women with a sartorial knack or the ability to devour the latest trend.

I have loved New York my entire life. Although I grew up in the hills of Penn's Wood, I was able to visit the city on a regular basis. My earliest lesson that The City was one of the world's wonders occurred on a busy corner midtown. We were waiting for the "Walk" signal on a corner. All of a sudden a scruffy bum (the term "homeless" hadn't been coined yet) stepped out of the river of stream of humanity and puked in broad daylight against the wall. No one panicked (except my mother). Not one of the hundreds of New Yorkers hustling on the pavement missed a beat. No one rushed up and offered him help. The bum efficiently spit up his business, wiped his chin, jumped back in the hustle and went his ragged way.

I was simultaneously grossed out and awestruck. That was probably one of the coolest things I'd ever seen in my prepubescent life. An amused New Yorker noticed my gaping mouth and widened eyes. He winked, and passed on these talismanic words, "Only in New York." I had been blessed. Many times I have returned to New York over the passing decades. The Fifth Lady has gotten softer, cleaner and glossier (like Giuliani performed some miraculous wash, rinse, condition and repeat on Manhattan), but I never fail to utter that phrase.

The last time was at the New York Historical Society. I turned up its steps one morning on a summer whim. As I came down from its staggering attic (Henry Luce III, you are the king of compulsive hoarders, and I love you.) and traipsed through the ground floor, a confident gay man shoved a gift bag in my hand without any ado. Okey-dokey. There was some sweet swag in there, including a DVD of The Tenth Kingdom. Not only that, I got to scarf some remnants of a nifty brunch. Mimosa in one hand and a mini breakfast pizza in the other, I sidled to the edge of the chattering throng. I asked a woman consuming some home fries on a bench what the party was celebrating. She shrugged and emphatically stated over her banana nut muffin, "I have no idea." Uh-huh. Someone threw a party, no one invited showed up, but a fabulous time was had by all. Only in New York.

Which is the long, winding path to my original point. You can only find Bill Cunningham in New York. Every Sunday, the Style section of The New York Times posts a slide show of Cunningham's photos with accompanying audio commentary. It's a succinct and charming way to peep into the daily lives of New Yorkers, as he usually informs the viewer about their survival skills, city traditions, and luscious dollops of fashion history.

If you click on this link, it takes you to today's meditation about "a premature visit of August weather." Normally, I take notes while the photos click by and ladies serve it up. But, today was a big pile of "Eesh!" I hate the maxi dress. Save that billowing mess for the beach or behind your closed front door! My Midwestern prudery (thank you, Mater) and appreciation of formality (thank you, Pater) causes me to inwardly rear up like an unbroken pony at the sight of these sloppy abominations.



These ladies look like they're in housecoats or nighties for criminy's sake. Of course, this is more of that boho-beach "fashion" that has rolled East from Crazifornia. Ugh. I shall not bow down to the influence of that hideous Chupacabra and her followers. I'd rather be a Real Housewife of Jersey, no, I take that back--nothing could make me degrade myself like that. I'd rather be a scruffy bum-ette on a puke stroll! There.

This week's peephole to Manhattan sidewalks only inspired horror and laughter (there's an Oompa-Loompa calendar girl FAILing). However, if you dig through Cunningham's archives, you'll see more dignified dames demonstrating one-upmanship with their spring coats; combinations of black and white; and other fashion essentials. Besides, it's worth it just to hear those pounding piano notes at each introduction. They suggest that students in leotards and baggy cords are about to spill out, stop traffic, and bust a move on a yellow taxi. Only in New York, y'all.

Stupid Dolly

That is the kind of stupid that will turn my head. Hot! Stupid! Straight Up Wrong! Let me jump on it. It reminds me of a morning at work. This particular job had a jumble of offices that stretched from a very busy thoroughfare in front to a dilapidated parking lot in back. Most of the place was dark, dank and hazardous to your long-term health.

The three oases from this filthy haze were the lobby, the front office, and my office. The door from the lobby would swing on a regular basis letting in fresh air to fight off the strong stank emanating from the nether pits. My office was only occupied by me. And, I clean up after my self. The other office piggies feared me and stayed the eff out.

The third oasis was the front office. This jobsite had day staff and night staff. The night grubsters generated the unholy filth that ruled the walls, floor and (Miles Davis help us) the air. The front office was for the day staff and their business. The grubsters sometimes trespassed but the sullying was limited to empty food containers. Because I had to use the office, too, the front office received regular tidying.

The best thing about this office was the floor-to-ceiling plate glass window that made up its fourth wall. Non-stop light and the soap opera on the street outside made up for the cramped quarters (four desks in a tiny space). I usually had the place to myself in the mornings.

This particular morning—and believe me it was before 10:00 a.m.—I was collecting and sorting the overnight faxes in the front office. And, a hard boy stumbled into view. He’s my father’s worst nightmare. Pale skin, muscles popping and rippling underneath a white tank, and baggy pants desperate to drop. Oh, don’t let me forget the beyond tacky gold chain—big and hefty—with a baseball cap on a tilt. It all adds up to WRONG.

And, he was stinko. He couldn’t walk straight, and he was brown-bagging the poison. Did I drop my eyes from horror? Hell, no. Mama watched dolly stagger by enjoying the show. He was rather amusing, and, well, hot. I’ve always liked stupid boys with hard bodies. I can’t bring them home for dinner, but that’s not why they’re here on Earth. Not by a long shot.

Mr. Stinko must have attracted someone else’s attention before my lusty eye tracked his bum stroll. A black-and-white pulls up, and two uniforms start asking him questions. Yeah, that didn’t go well. He started to mouth off and eventually resist. The uniforms had him slammed up on the car with the legs spread. He’s screaming and struggling. So stupid. Even hotter.

I don’t usually find Adrien Brody attractive. He’s been on my skeevy radar since that forced kiss with Halle at the Oscars. But, Brody is hitting that stupid dolly stroll just right.

Best Songs Ever

I was cleaning some window fans in preparation of Boston's one-day heatwave, and I was cranking the tunes. Prince's "Kiss" came on, and I believe that could possibly be one of the best pop songs ever. Lyrics are killer, the singing is perfect, and the beats are so comely. Quickly after that, John Mellencamp's "Jack and Diane" come on, and I wondered if that could be considered as well. I'd have to have a battle between the two on my iTunes to declare a winner or a draw. I have "Kiss" but I'm missing the little ditty about two American kids growing up in the heartland. That debate has to go on the back burner. Meanwhile, more good music and memories crossed my path on the web.

Yesterday, EW.com published this exclusive video of Rivers Cuomo doing a live version of "El Scorcho." The tiny post that accompanies the video sort of articulates my feelings about Pinkerton. I wasn't a teenager though. Two memories about Weezer/Pinkerton.

I wanted Weezer on disc bad one holiday. I totally pleaded to have some off-beat rock under the tree. It was a gamble. My darling mother from Wisconsin totally missed out on the music revolution that was the 60s, and sort of jumped off after digging Elvis. She likes Pat Boone for jiminy's sake! So, yeah, anything Beatles and beyond is a mystery to this woman.

Plus, ofttimes the woman becomes befuddled in an American retail outlet. It's the dazzling array of shiny choices. She gets overwhelmed and shuts down. She grabs the closest thing to the register and wham! there's your gift. So, I was a bit nervous about entrusting Weezer to her. Remember, there was a band out there called Ween at the same time. Sure, I dug that weird daisies song, but I didn't want a whole album of it.

Anyhoo, my mom got it right. I unwrapped not just Pinkerton, but the Blue Album as well. I proceeded to lose my shit. I jumped up, screamed, and ran around the house like a wild thing. Yeah, I was in my 20s. But, I lost it. And, I proceeded to slip in the amazingness that WAS, IS, AND WILL FOREVER BE Pinkerton.

My mother marched into the music store in her navy cardigan, approached the clerk, and said her daughter wanted a band with a weird name that started with "W" and sang about Buddy Holly. Two Christmas miracle discs were instantly plucked from the rack by the magical mystery clerk: I imagine that his name was Trevor, wore polyester plaid pants, and had groomed a burly fu manchu. But he was probably named Dave, rocked a pot belly, and wore baggy black clothes.

And, I lived happily ever after in the brooding, yet upbeat, world of half-Japanese girls and unraveling sweaters. THAT IS FUCKING POETRY, Y'ALL!! That's what this music does to me. I morph into a Kanye-Britney hybrid while I write.

The second memory about Pinkerton would be my statement to an uber alt-boy (writes reviews, lead singer of band on a semi-obscure label) that it was the best album to come out of the 90s, period. I said it with such conviction, he did a double-take. He wanted to argue with me with every shred of his alt-rock-country-obscure being, but a heartless wench had just dumped him and he was too weary. Sometimes miracles do come out of a Jim Beam bottle.

Merry Christmas, y'all!

Forget About St. Peter, Just Send Bea Arthur

I don't need St. Peter to meet me at the gates. One, I'm not Catholic and saints don't impress me. Just send Maudie in a glorious pantsuit with cocktails. We'll skip the pleasantries and get straight to the dish.

I don't have much use for Jezebel.com. I hesitate to call them feminists--they don't seem to have the balls, and they usually err on the side of "cutesy." But, they served up a good tribute to Bea Arthur, her characters, and their impact on pop culture. The clips are excellent, too. Another memoriam piece that was a cut above the rest was in the LA Times. They explained why we won't see another like Ms. Bea Arthur again. I would have loved to see Tina Fey go toe to toe with the Incomparable Maudie. That's the closest female comedic performer who might have had a chance against that baleful stare. Or, Amy Poehler.

Bea Arthur listed three influences on her career:

"Sid Caesar taught me the outrageous; (method acting guru) Lee Strasberg taught me what I call reality; and ('Threepenny Opera' star) Lotte Lenya, whom I adored, taught me economy.''


That's a hell of a gumbo. If I had to list three influences for myself, I would say #75, Muhammed Ali, and Madonna. Probably why I'm not in comedy.

God will get you for that, Walter.

The amazingly talented Bea Arthur passed away today. Gulp. That lady could really deliver a line. She played Dorothy on the insanely popular "Golden Girls," but I loved her most as Maude. Television from the Seventies had the best theme songs, and one of the best was "And Then There's Maude" sung by Donny Hathaway. I busted out for that theme song. I loved how it name-checked famous ladies, and then encouraged you to yell out for Maude over and over.

I asked my mother once if she had any regrets about the way she raised me. She said the only thing she'd change is her constant attempt to mold me into ladylike and "quiet" behaviour. Looking back, she thought life would be easier for me if I learned how to curb my mouth and gentle my eyes. She says now that she was mistaken because 1) life is hard no matter what, so "go, girl, go" 2) I seem to be able to handle the consequences of being outspoken and 3) it was a futile mission from the get-go and she only garnered wrinkles and gray hairs for her trouble.

And, I am mouthy. Overriding my mother's priority on decorum, the power of feminine sass was given to me by the aunties, Florence Johnston, and then there was Maude! If you risked her displeasure, she would lovingly growl, "I'll rip your heart out." I wish I could bask in that growl one more time.


Maude was awesome, and that was due to the talent of Bea Arthur. She went on to play Dorothy and gained even more admirers. No doubt that show was hilarious, too, with the riposting between Dorothy and Ma; Dorothy and Herb; well, Dorothy and everybody. Another performance that is worthy of mention is Ms. Arthur in the film version of Mame playing Vera Charles, the original Patsy (get in line Joanna Lumley).

May she rest in peace.
With a never-ending pitcher of martinis.

Bea Arthur
May 13, 1922 - April 25, 2009

OMFG! Battle of the Jennifers – “And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going"

I do not like to lose my sh*# in public. Bred from two staunch lines of stoics, I find it highly distasteful to emote in front of others. The exception is football. Anything goes when it comes to the Steelers. However, I’m usually expressing aggression and anger; those emotions are seen as strengths—at least from the pater’s side of the family. But, I don’t like to cry in public. Not only do I view tears as weakness, I cry ugly. So, pride and vanity wrapped up in a pretty, curly bow! Thanks, Daddy.

And, I don’t express admiration easily. You have got to earn my praise. It’s another football thing—basically, you’ve got to smack me in the mouth and run me over before I admit that you’re worthy of attention. And, I certainly don’t loiter around to get autographs or scream my head off (unless its Heinz Stadium and I want to tell #92 that he made Flacco look like a crash test dummy for most of the game) to puff some other person’s ego.



One electrifying night in 1981, I was taken to see the original Broadway production of Dreamgirls. Well, I got smacked in the mouth—and I liked it. For the first time, I wanted to hang around the theater's back door to squeal as the principals left for Sardi’s (as I imagined it), and OMG! maybe, I could get someone to sign my Playbill.

Basically, I lost my sh*#. And, a big part of it was the showstopper, “And I’m Not Telling I’m Not Going.” The very next day, I made my mother buy me the cast recording. Jennifer Holliday was the Queen. Let me explain about black folk. Once we have decided that your version of a song is THE VERSION, that’s it. Nobody can sing that song until you die. Beyonce should not have belted “At Last” at that inaugural ball because Etta James is alive and well and that standard is hers all alone—she’s territorially peed all over it. So, Beyonce and her reedy voice needed to sit down.



As for “And I’m Not Telling…,” forget it. Whitney Houston sang it live in concert, and barely got away with it. The crowd gave her a pass, but they weren’t happy. I hadn’t heard the Jennifer Hudson version; I don’t watch Idol and I haven’t seen the movie version of Dreamgirls. The link below changed that. With its “battle” headline, I had to watch this video posted from a recent concert in Atlanta, GA. And, I likey! Jennifer Hudson is worthy to attempt this song. I have to say her pipes did it better justice than Whitney’s did. But, Jennifer Holliday is STILL THE QUEEN. Hudson should get her props, but Ms. Holliday still owns this song.

I don’t think it’s just my opinion either. The best thing about this video is the other queen to be heard. The one squealing in the background, “OMG! OMG!! OMG!!! OMG!!!! OMG!!!!!”

Losing our sh*# together, we crown Holliday as the one and only ruler of this song.

Watch:
Battle of the Jennifers

If you don't believe, watch Holliday's performance at the Tonys.