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Son of Baconator…

Saw an ad for this monstrosity online:

SonOfBaconator If you are consuming a food item with a Universal-horror-film-inspired name, you shouldn’t expect to live long enough to have a son of your own.

This is marketed as a burger for “smaller appetites,” but the sandwich contains 700 calories and 1,760 mg of sodium. That is marginally better than its parent, which boasts 900 calories and 2,020 mg of sodium. Wendy’s modestly describes the Baconator as a “tasty treat.”

 
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Posted by on April 24, 2013 in Pop Life

 

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Neighborhood Haunts that Still Exist (Episode One: The Abbey Pub)…

Neighborhood Haunts that Still Exist (Episode One: The Abbey Pub)…

I’ve spent a lot of time grousing about restaurants, bars, and coffee shops from youth that progress replaced with a Walgreen’s, a cell phone store, or a Starbucks. So I’m taking a moment to salute the ones that still exist.

The Abbey Pub was my first “local” bar in New York. It was ten minutes away from my very Upper West Side apartment. It was demographically similar to The Globe in Athens, Georgia. It was where Columbia professors, grad students, and locals (to clarify, I was strictly the latter) hung out. There’s an assortment of great beers on tap, and cool pew-like booths if you’re with friends and comfortable seats at the bar if you’re me. It was the first bar I took my friends Kim and Beth to when they came to visit me at the end of 1996, and not coincidentally, it was the first time I sat at one of the booths.

I have no great stories related to the place, unfortunately. For about six years, it was a home from small cramped room. I tended to just soak in the atmosphere… and the beers. There was also a wonderful video rental store directly above the pub that had buy-one-get-one free specials over the weekend and picked up and delivered. Pretty much every old movie my friend Erin and I watched came from there. Sadly, it is long since gone now, and… well, I promised that’s not what these posts would be about.

Next time, I’ll be more loquacious.

 
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Posted by on April 24, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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A Very Special Christmas…

If you were born in the early-to-mid 1970s, you might hold some sentimental value for A Very Special Christmas. Released in 1987 to benefit the Special Olympics, it’s a collection of Christmas songs from popular musicians of the period. Because this was the pre-American Idol age, that’s not a bad thing.

My favorites in order:

Eurythmics, Winter Wonderland (no official video, just pictures of Annie Lennox, which is a Christmas gift in itself).

Madonna, Santa Baby

U2, Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)

Oh and, of course…

I’m not as fond of its 1992 follow-up, A Very Special Christmas 2, but it does feature Frank Sinatra and Cyndi Lauper performing Santa Claus Is Coming to Town as a duet (it’s not written as one, by the way, and proper duets are a conversation, but I digress…)

 
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Posted by on December 9, 2012 in Pop Life

 

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Ill-Advised TripAdvisor photo…

“Honey, for my TripAdvisor review of our nifty B&B, I’m going to post this photo of you enjoying breakfast in your pajamas. That’s just the type of relevant information people want to see.”

“Dear, that’s a fabulous idea, as you can tell from my enthused expression.”

“Hey, did you notice that weird couple by the window? They’re eating breakfast fully dressed. I think they might have already showered and combed their hair.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they know how B&Bs work. They’re acting as though this isn’t their own home.”

“Sheesh, some people.”

Photos of Abigail's Hotel, Victoria
This photo of Abigail’s Hotel is courtesy of TripAdvisor

 
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Posted by on December 8, 2012 in Pop Life, Social Commentary

 

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“Chicago” 1975 commercial…

I stumbled upon this treat on YouTube, which made my day.

This is a commercial promoting the original Broadway production of “Chicago” from 1975. Stars Gwen Verdon and Chita Rivera don’t appear (which I have to think was intentional) but you get a revealing look at the dancers. I use the word “revealing” not just in the wardrobe (or lack thereof) sense but in the glimpse we get at the overt “seediness” of the show. Guy I knew years ago objected to the 1996 revival because he believed what he called the “Victoria’s Secret costumes” removed the show visually from the period, which is thematically critical. I obviously and most regrettably never saw the original but I do agree that the 1920s and vaudeville are major characters. I also think it was bold of Verdon to really play to the “over-the-hill” aspect of Roxie. I’ve seen stills of her in outfits that are clearly not meant to be flattering.

You also see Bob Fosse’s choreography. Ann Reinking did a great homage to it in the revival but Fosse is much more controlled (imagine the slow movement on one thumb compared to an entire arm).

I shall remain giddy over this find for at least a few days. I’ve mentioned many times before that “Chicago” is my favorite musical — searingly funny book, amazing dance numbers, and not a bad song from start (“All That Jazz”) to finish (“Nowadays”). “All I Need Is the Girl” is one of my favorite songs but out of context, the average person wouldn’t know it’s from “Gypsy.” “Razzle Dazzle” and “Mister Cellophane” are instantly recognizable as from “Chicago” and they’re just from the male leads!

 
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Posted by on June 14, 2012 in Pop Life

 

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The Great Gatsby Trailer…

The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, is more poetry than prose, which is why I think attempts to translate it to the screen have failed. However, Baz Luhrmann takes a shot at the literary white whale this Christmas in a big-budget, 3D extravaganza that stars Leonard DiCaprio.

Let’s take a look at the trailer.

:11 — We start with Tobey Maguire’s narration as Nick Carraway. Maguire is miscast — just as Paul Rudd was in the 2000 TV movie version. They are both entirely too modern and frankly don’t look like guys who went to Yale and hung out with Tom Buchanan. I think a Chris Pine or a Channing Tatum would have been a better choice: Someone who resembles Tom somewhat physically but not intellectually. Maguire and Rudd strike me as an attempt to cast the Nick we see from his internal commentary on events, which is a mistake. Practically speaking, Nick isn’t wealthy, so Jordan Baker’s attraction to him requires an explanation other than her (non-existent) depth.

:12 — I’m pleased that Luhrmann includes the following scene from Chapter Four: As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.

These two sentences accomplish a great deal: The Harlem Renaissance is taking place, and the grandchildren and perhaps even the children of slaves are enjoying the American Dream as defined by material gain. It is how Gatsby defines it — the transformative, almost baptismal power of money. However, the “bucks” foreshadow the futility of that dream: America’s class structure is as rigid as it pretends not to be. The scene is also a great counterpoint to Tom Buchanan’s earlier racist ramblings about the “colored races” who will “take control over things.” Nick’s casual racism is such that he laughs in their faces. He is secure in the social structure. However, in his misguided way, Buchanan correctly sees the future and fears it. This makes him less racially arrogant than Nick.

:14 — I hope the narration is just for the trailer. The 1974 film and 2000 TV versions used voice-over narration. I find this a cheat. Gatsby isn’t a hardboiled detective story.

:24 — The description of the era reminds me that the 30 years from Nick’s birth in 1892 to the summer of 1922 was world changing in a way that I don’t think has been repeated (and I’m including the ’50s and the ’80s).

:27 — Jordan Baker, my literary love, is again depicted (incorrectly) as a brunette. From the book:

Chapter One: Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post.— the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.

Chapter Nine: She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the color of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee.

If autumn is the death of summer — when the events of the story take place, the color of Jordan’s hair takes on an appropriate meaning for her character.

Elizabeth Debicki, who plays Jordan, is also very pale, and Fitzgerald goes to great lengths to describe Jordan’s skin as tan (“golden” being the most commonly used descriptor and again symbolically appropriate).

:34 — Daisy Buchanan (here played by Carey Mulligan) is one of the most fascinating villains (yes, villains) in literature. Our tendency to not view her as villainous recalls Nick’s chauvinistic line that “Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply.” Perhaps if Daisy were male… just as we might view Tom differently if he were female.

I’m told that Jordan is usually depicted as a brunette in order to avoid confusion with Daisy, which still doesn’t make sense because Daisy is a brunette:

Chapter Five: A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car.

Dark hair would take on a bluish tint when wet.

Chapter Eight: On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair.

Her hair color is also obliquely referenced in Chapter One during Tom’s racist tirade:

“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and ——” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “— And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization — oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”

If you’ve been to the Nordic countries (Denmark, Norway, Sweden), you would notice that there are a lot of blondes around. So, the reasonable assumption is that Tom is blonde, Nick is also (though never cast as such), as well as Jordan. Daisy is not. This doesn’t mean she’s from Compton but she’s most likely pale with dark hair… so like the lady playing Jordan in the movie. Sigh.

:46 — DiCaprio as Gatsby. I can’t think of a better actor of this generation for the part. Also… he’s my age so I still feel young.

1:01 — Changing the location of the lunchtime meeting with Meyer Wolfsheim into some sort of speakeasy, strip joint is unnecessary and misses the point of what Gatsby is attempting to accomplish with Nick.

1:13 — Joel Edgerton — also my age, so again, I feel young — has the brutish appearance (if not the “straw-colored hair”) of Tom Buchanan.

1:19 — I hope there’s more to Mulligan’s performance than this overdrawn mopiness, which isn’t Daisy Buchanan. I can’t disagree more with how she delivers the key line, “You always look so cool.” It is not an anguished declaration of love but the flighty, indiscreet comment from a woman whose “voice is full of money.”

1:31 — Now, this is just terrible. My Jordan Baker does not get excited about things. She is cool as ice.

Chapter Three: “It was — simply amazing,” she repeated abstractedly. “But I swore I wouldn’t tell it and here I am tantalizing you.” She yawned gracefully in my face: “Please come and see me. . . . Phone book . . . Under the name of Mrs. Sigourney Howard . . . My aunt . . .” She was hurrying off as she talked — her brown hand waved a jaunty salute as she melted into her party at the door.

2:00 — We never know if Gatsby and Daisy consummate their affair (because Nick himself doesn’t know). Unless Nick is filming this for future use, then the film chooses to show us things outside of his point of view, which is a mistake (it also creates narrative inconsistency — if the POV can just shift, then why would we not know when Jordan does about Gatsby’s request, and so on?).

Further, I think Gatsby’s dream is greater than simply having sex with Daisy. If he does that, then it’s just an affair. He wants to court her — as he did in the past but correctly this time — and then marry her and obliterate their five years apart.

2:05: Isla Fisher as Myrtle Wilson? Huh?

Chapter Two: She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering.

And if Myrtle’s fate is experienced in 3D… oy vey.

 
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Posted by on June 7, 2012 in Pop Life

 

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Happiness is not an option…

When I was 8, I realized I was going to die — not immediately like the kids on daytime talk shows with the rapid aging disease but eventually like everyone else in my family. My parents were each the youngest children, so there was always a funeral. It was what we did for entertainment. “What funeral’s opening this weekend? Which minister is presiding? Should we call ahead for seats?”

I never understood all the emotion at a funeral. If you believed in heaven, you knew that your loved one wasn’t gone. They were someplace better and you’d see them eventually. Why did I have to put on a suit just because some old person moved to a better neighborhood?

“You don’t know for sure if someone is going to heaven,” my mother pointed out. “Only God knows.”

“Is it really that difficult? Sure, Mrs. Johnson’s fruitcake was awful but other than that, she should be a sure thing. It’s not like she was an axe murderer.”

“Don’t be blasphemous. You still have two years to get that aging disease.”

If I pushed things with my mother, she would remind me that I could still get progeria until I was 10. Those kids were a horror show — wrinkled, rheumy-eyed, and wearing a baseball cap to hide their baldness. They’d obviously gotten on God’s bad side. After one of my mother’s warnings, I’d go to bed convinced I’d wake up old, withered, and grotesque — sort of like Gregor Samsa but with a fondness for Sunday morning political programming. The worst thing was that my mother would still have made me go out and play. I hated playing. I didn’t like sweating or getting my clothes dirty. I just wanted to read or listen to music, but my mother would insist I spend at least an hour outside. I would usually smuggle a comic book in my pants (the Archie digests were best for this) and read it behind the doghouse, occasionally making “playing” noises: “Cobra!” or “Decepticons attack!” would usually suffice.

The one upside, or so I thought, of dying from progeria would be a first-class ticket to heaven. I would have suffered enough to have my many transgressions overlooked.

Not so fast, my mother countered.

“Only God knows what will happen,” she repeated. “But if you were bad enough to get progeria, I wouldn’t pack a sweater.”

At this point, it seemed like everyone was going to hell. No wonder funerals were a weep-fest. All the “homegoing” nonsense was just denial. We would all burn. But I wondered how bad could hell be? There was all this sickness in life. Maybe that’s all hell was — more life. More crap jobs, boring math classes, more family strife… and it never ended. “Homegoing” was a condemnation not a blessing.

Heaven, for me, would just be the end — no more anything. It could be a perennial state similar to when you’re dozing off — asleep enough to feel removed from the world but conscious enough to enjoy it.

I recall a discussion of the after life on Oprah during which this perky blonde in the audience stood up and said that when you look at the world and all its wonders — a nicely prepared steak, a glass of wine, smiling kids, loving spouse, walking along the beach feeling the sand between your toes — it was obvious that this was heaven. Now, the woman sitting behind her looked like she’d have to take out a loan to go to Waffle House, her kids were too hungry to smile, her spouse was loving her sister, and she couldn’t even afford to watch Beaches on cable. She just glared at her. If this was heaven, she might as well hang herself.

The blonde wasn’t entirely wrong. This is the best of all possible worlds because it’s the only one. Life is great for some and terrible for most. But it ends for everyone. There’s some joy in knowing that torture will end, but it must be awful to know that the pleasure you’re experiencing now will also end. That’s why I came to the conclusion when I was 8 that happiness is not an option. But at least whatever we have now will eventually end.

 
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Posted by on April 24, 2012 in Social Commentary

 

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Ann Romney, working stiff…

During a scene in a Law & Order: Criminal Intent episode, Dets. Goren and Eames ask a suspect about his whereabouts during a murder. He explains that he was “babysitting” his kids. This irks Eames, who responds, “Oh, I love when men say they have to babysit their kids. If they’re your kids, it’s not babysitting. It’s called being a dad.”

This popped into my head during the uproar over Democratic strategist Hilary Rosen’s statement, for which she later apologized, that Ann Romney, wife of the presidential candidate, had “never worked a day in her life.” This is only true in the factual sense. However, it was considered an attack on stay-at-home mothers. Mrs. Romney responded that her “career choice” was being a mother. This is probably poorer wording than Rosen’s. I presume she was not a professional surrogate, so is she actually saying rearing her own kids was a “job”?

I was raised by a stay-at-home mother. It was great for me and arguably even better for my father, who never had to cook a meal, wash a dish, or do laundry for most of his life. I remember when my mother was in the hospital in 1991. My father and I lived up the bachelor lifestyle. We even had dinner at Quincy’s Steakhouse one night. It was cool for about a day. Then we noticed the dirty clothes that refused to clean themselves, the tumbleweeds drifting through the house, and the creature with tentacles that tried to grab me when I opened the refrigerator.

My father worked long hours, often six days a week, without complaint, just as my mother took care of the house and our sorry asses seven days a week without complaint. I wouldn’t consider it an insult to say that my father had never spent time in a grocery store. So why is it an insult to say that my mother had no professional experience? Aren’t both statements fair and accurate?

I recall during the late 1980s when there was this need to “justify” homemaking. Housewives weren’t just Peggy Bundy stereotypes eating bon-bons and watching Oprah all day. No, they were actually chauffeurs, cooks, housekeepers, psychiatrists (I always thought the last one was a stretch, as few kids grow up well adjusted). Why, a housewife was a “five-figure occupation.” That struck me as offensive. First off, why wouldn’t you expect someone to clean her own house and take care of her kids? Who else is going to do it? Octavia Spencer? Also, a wife is an equal partner to her husband. A stay-at-home mother is not her spouse’s contracted employee. If that was the case, then my father somehow wound up marrying Florence from The Jeffersons.

“Work” is defined as “activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result,” so I suppose that includes Mrs. Romney and pretty much everyone but Kim Kardashian. Now, a “job” is defined as a “paid position of regular employment.” Mrs. Romney has a “couple Cadillacs” but not one of those (limited space in the sixth house to store it). That was most likely Rosen’s point, the one everyone will miss because it is more politically expedient to focus on her arguably poor word choice.

These days, people with jobs are afraid of losing their positions outright or being replaced by someone younger and cheaper. That was never a concern for Mrs. Romney. It’s not like she married Newt Gingrich.

 

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The Wrecka Stow…

My first time in New Orleans, in December of 1995, I was more excited about browsing through the French Quarter’s independent record stores than in exploring Bourbon Street at its raunchiest. In those pre-Amazon/Napster days, I relished the opportunity to scour through the bins of stores in other towns. If your tastes went beyond Top 40 releases from the past five years, you weren’t interested in a Sam Goody or a Walmart. You kept your eyes out for a “wrecka stow.”

I first heard the term used in 1986’s Under the Cherry Moon starring Prince. Unless you’re Prince or me, you probably haven’t seen the film but there’s a scene in which he asks the very English Kristin Scott Thomas to say “wrecka stow.” Her Masterpiece Theater pronunciation of the term is hilarious.


My friends and I had passed by a promising indie shop on our way to our next drink (when visiting New Orleans, you are always on your way to your next drink). I offhandedly referred to the place as a “wrecka stow” and my friend Todd found it amusing. Later that day, he suggested we head back to the “wrecka stow.” By this point, I think he just enjoyed saying it. He did much better than Ms. Thomas.

Once inside, I went straight for the Prince section. Although Sam Goody had a decent supply of Purple Rain and 1999, his earlier material, especially his 7 and 12-inch singles, was harder to find. Prince had just released a Greatest Hits Collection that was comprehensive but mercilessly cut. It’s criminal to hear a three-and-a-half minute 1999 or I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man. I had all of the albums, but the extended mixes from the 12-inch-singles required patience and scavenging.

My big purchase that day was the 7-inch single for Prince’s Kiss. Todd humored me and listened to my explanation for why this was the best thing ever: Prince’s Greatest Hits CD had also come with a bonus disc of non-album B-Sides. For whatever reason, though, Love or Money, the B-Side to Kiss, was not included. I don’t even remember what it cost. Price was no object. Todd and I had a drink to celebrate my success.

This morning, while in the tub listening to Prince’s Crystal Ball, it occurred to me that because I only ever owned Love or Money on vinyl, it wasn’t on my iPod. I found it on iTunes and downloaded it while brushing my teeth. The 21-year-old me would be impressed but a part of me envies him and the joy of the hunt.


 
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Posted by on April 7, 2012 in Pop Life

 

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Acuvue helps you see your genetically and socially engineered future…

Acuvue is the subject of today’s installment of “Who the Hell Approved This?”

So, the black kid wants to be a professional athlete (probability of this occurring is 24,550 to 1 — aim high, young man). The young woman wants a guy to like her (chances of this occurring are… fairly high, actually, unless you live in Elton John’s house. Aim low, young lady.). The white kid wants to run a business. Seems reasonable. Who hasn’t seen commercials with white men as bosses? Can’t deny reality.

The ad stirred up some controversy online.

A YouTube user posted the following: “What a disgraceful commercial! So, the girl only wants to be ‘pretty’? The white boy, the ‘boss’? The black kid, an ‘athlete’? Racist AND sexist! Buh-bye, Acuvue!”

An Acuvue representative quickly responded:

“Thanks for your comments regarding our 1-Day campaign. We wanted to take a moment to clarify our intentions. The 1-Day campaign is all about encouraging you to be confident, no matter what you do. Obviously, both glasses and contacts can give you good vision. But many people like how contact lenses make them look or how they can let them play sports or do activities where glasses can get in the way. We hope this clarifies our intentions. Thanks again for your feedback.”

Unfortunately, these carefully worded talking points didn’t satisfy everyone.

“Oh look, how creative! The African-American boy wants to be an athlete, the white boy wants to be a CEO, and the girl just wants to be desirable. Sexism AND racism, all in one 30-second shot, I’m impressed….”

The Acuvue representative took the time to address this user’s concerns, as well.

“Thanks for your comments regarding our 1-Day campaign. We wanted to take a moment to clarify our intentions. The 1-Day campaign is all about encouraging you to be confident, no matter what you do. Obviously, both glasses and contacts can give you good vision. But many people like how contact lenses make them look or how they can let them play sports or do activities where glasses can get in the way. We hope this clarifies our intentions. Thanks again for your feedback.”

Oh yeah, the rep just copies and pastes the same statement. This happened at least three times.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to contact that white kid about a job.

 
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Posted by on March 28, 2012 in Social Commentary

 

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