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THE COLBERT REPORT recently featured a hilarious story about a Sean Hannity Fox News Report on America’s awesomeness in which he proclaimed, repeatedly (I shit you not) that the USA is (and I quote verbatim, honest) “THE GREATEST, BEST COUNTRY GOD HAS EVER GIVEN MAN ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH!”

Now, the fourth grade phrasing of the sentiment aside, upon exactly what is Hannity basing this conjecture? Our disastrously low world rankings in education, health care, environmental issues, literacy, GNP, healthy life expectancy, exports and world opinion? Oh, maybe he’s talking about how much we kick ass when it comes to gun ownership, national debt, obesity and energy consumption. Oh, and being able to transmute serious subjects into hollow rhetoric. At that, we stand unparalleled.

The new issue of ROLLING STONE features an interview with Barack Obama by Jann Wenner. The relatively short Q&A touches on Obama’s primary agenda, his relationship to pop culture and the kind of campaign that is no doubt just amping up. I’m sure we have just begun to hear about his secret Muslim leanings, his lack of patriotism, his drug use and of course, the hidden subtext of the terrorist fist jab!!

The “Lack of Patriotism” tag cracks me up in particular. Why is it I’ve never seen a member of the DNC refuting this ludicrous charge by pointing out the simple fact that THE GUY IS RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT. Seems as if being a patriot is kinda a prerequisite for even choosing to enter that particular arena. Oh, but he didn’t put his hand over his heart during the Pledge and he only recently started sporting that all-important gauge of national fidelity, the FLAG PIN!

I love the cover of the RS issue. It can certainly be interpreted a number of ways, but I like to look at it as Barack Obama chuckling over the absurdity of this meaningless piece of jewelry that he ultimately decided is not worth fighting over. Because it is meaningless. A flag is merely a symbol, and symbols are desecrated by the hypocritical actions of their followers ALL THE TIME. To my mind, trying to ban flag burning is every bit as antithetical to the meaning of that symbol as the act itself. That those nominal “patriots” who would alter the Constitution to LIMIT a freedom (the nation defining, and hard-to-reinterpret-to-counter-the-argument-that-increased-technology-renders-it-anachronistic 1st Amendment) can’t understand the true meaning and importance of freedom is truly sad to me. There are hundreds of American politicians who stick a flag pin on their clothing and then go to work and betray their oath of office every single day. Implying that Obama doesn’t love America because he didn’t wear a flag pin is as ridiculously superficial as attacking someone for their haircut or cleavage.

Now, I realize that imagining that Obama is laughing AT the flag pin only buys into that other accusation that drives me to distraction, that of his supposed ELITISM. If “elite” is construed to mean “the best in a particular group” then I Goddamn hope he’s an elitist! To paraphrase Bill Maher, look at what seven and a half years of our current mouth-breather have given us! Don’t we WANT a President who’s BETTER than we are? Smarter? Stronger? Faster? Oh, wait, that’s the Six Million Dollar Man. Still, you get the point.

As a rule, I don’t get excited about things before they happen just because I’m cynical enough to assume the worst. A life of low expectations yields fewer letdowns and makes the triumphs that much sweeter. I don’t consider Obama a lock for November by any stretch. I do feel that for a large group of Americans, all that matters is the traditional God, Guns and Guts (screw any substantive discourse, and don’t even talk about sacrifice!). As the election draws closer, the mudslinging aimed at Barack Obama will make John Kerry’s campaign look like a tiptoe through the tulips. And for those who dig no deeper than an ignorant shouting point, the mud could stick. After all, a lot of Americans “have had ENUF of HOO-Sane!”

But unlike John Kerry (who ran a campaign so inept I couldn’t decide whether to be angry or embarrassed), thus far Obama has risen above the fray, chosen his battles carefully and stuck to message. He’s brave enough to admit when he’s changed his mind about something (such as public financing, and before you accuse him of flip flopping, ask yourself: When was the last time you checked the “donate” box on your income tax return?) and sincere enough that he won’t back down on some tough medicine that we all need to take (to steal from the right, “freedom ain’t free!”).

And heck, he even knows how to use modern technology! Ain’t that a hoot!

My fingers are crossed. Money has been donated. Opinions have been shouted, both sober and hooch-amplified. I remain a cynic, but never so much as to surrender. And I genuinely believe that Barack Obama is maybe our only chance of repairing the incalculable damage done by the current administration to the Greatest, Best Country God Has Ever Given Man on the Face of the Earth.

Here’s to Hope. Here’s to Change.

Heroes, Not Super

As of today, I have paid over $500.00 for the honor of merely having my job, while being made to feel like a criminal for the fifth time in ten years.

A chunk of Hoboken bureaucratic bullshit known as THE BAR CARD requires bar and restaurant employees in our little mile square to pay $110.25 every two years for a card that allows them to work in the proximity of booze. There’s no reason for its existence other than to add to the city’s coffers, and why those of us who work in one of its most profitable and ubiquitous industries are singled out remains a mystery that nobody’s every been able to answer for me. I think the simple reason is “Because they can.”

As if it doesn’t suck enough to have to pay for the privilege of having a job, the police at the window where you fill out your forms and pay your money (two different money orders, thank you very much) invariably treat you like a criminal. And I don’t just mean because you have to be photographed and fingerprinted (as far as I know, my fingerprints haven’t changed in the past ten years, but they now have five sets of them). The impatient, gruff attitude that these peace officers display towards us bartenders, waiters and security peeps just enhances my opinion that many (if not most) cops…. are jerks.

I know, I know, you’re not allowed to say that in our post-9/11 world where police officers, firefighters and the military are our unchallenged HEROES. To question their motives or behavior is verboten (even after Abu Ghraib). And yet, we have to. About the only thought-provoking thing I ever saw Andy Rooney say was a statement he made in 2004 along the lines of “I was in the Army. And I can tell you that not all soldiers are heroes.” (Actually, his wording was awkward, saying "all soldiers are not heroes," but the meaning is obvious).

The fact is, many people join the military because they don’t have any other option. Jobs are scarce, and lots of them have three kids to support by the time they’re 20 (don’t get me started on THAT). The armed forces are pretty much the only job that any young person in America is practically guaranteed. And then there are those soldiers for whom military service is a legacy, something they’re not even allowed to question (a phenomenon also common with cops and firemen). Some people enlist as a last ditch effort to straighten out lives of crime or addiction. And, sadly, but undeniably, some people join up in the hopes that they will be able to kill other people.

Does this make their sacrifice worthless? Of course not. Regardless of the impetus, they’re still taking a risk that my tiny, wussy balls would never dare and, as much as I hate its dominance of our federal budget and policy, I am well aware of the necessity of a military. (I do NOT however, buy the tag line that they are necessarily protecting “our freedom.” Under our current, criminal administration, they are tragically risking their lives to protect corporate interests more than anything else. That’s not their fault, but it’s something that everyone, especially those who serve and their loved ones should be furious about).

As for fire fighters, I have nothing bad to say. That is a truly honorable, brave job that requires a level of sacrifice and selflessness that most people don’t possess. If there were a God, I’d ask him to bless ‘em.

Cops, however…

Cops are like teachers in that there are two very distinct and disparate types of people who enter both professions. With teachers, you have two extremes: (1) People who realize how supremely important the job is, and who are on a mission to make the world a better place by giving children a GOOD education. These are among the most important people on Earth. Conversely, there are (2) People with no real passion for anything who couldn’t figure out a major in college. So they become teachers. Bad ones, who ultimately do more harm than good. We all can, in retrospect especially, remember which teachers taught and which ones could give a shit.

With cops, the two types are even further apart. There are many police officers who joined the force because they genuinely want to “serve and protect” the public. To those brave, honorable men and women, I tip my nonexistent hat and say “Thanks.”

But my experience over the years, along with that of my friends, has been that many of the boys and girls in blue are little more than government-authorized bullies, people who wanted to have a job where they could mess with people, ignore the rules of society, abuse power and get away with all of it. Free coffee is the mere tip of the iceberg. Even just in the context of a bar, lots of us have seen cops flash a badge in lieu of paying a cover charge (and go ahead and dare to refuse it as admission). Especially for those of us who live in an urban environment, it’s hard to find a person who doesn’t have a story about a cop abusing authority, be it as minor as parking wherever they want or as major as roughing someone up unnecessarily. But we’ve ALL witnessed the swaggering arrogance of some bad lieutenants. And the fact that it even makes me a wee bit nervous to merely WRITE THIS DOWN is proof of the pudding (I always wanted to use that phrase).

One mo’ time, I’m not saying ALL police are jerks. But to ascribe universal altruism and unassailable valor to the entirety of law enforcement is not only naive, it’s stupid, and endemic of an ever-spreading tendency in our society to question NOTHING, especially authority. Which is not only dangerous and short-sighted, it’s downright un-American.

Phew. Okay, don’t worry, next week I’ll get back to talking about heroes who wear spandex and are much less complicated. Yay!

Civic Duty

Wednesday, May 21, 2008: DAY ONE.
I type this on day one of my (hopefully only) two days of jury duty. It’s my third time being called for Hudson County, NJ, my second for Petit Jury, and last year I was called for (but didn’t serve) Grand Jury.

I don’t really mind it. As Americans, we really are asked to do so little: Vote. Pay taxes. And every once in a while serve as a peer. I can do peer. I do all three of those things with little complaint (yes, even the second) in grateful recognition of the sacrifices of our forefathers. Or something like that.

This is not to say I ENJOY jury duty. Of course, it’s a pain. Getting up at 6:30 to crawl here amid the gray masses for $5.00 is not pleasant, and there are other things I could be doing (although bringing the laptop is a big ol’ plus… if only I’d brought the power cord [31% battery power remaining]).

But sitting here in the holding pen, I am again confronted with a mélange of everyday American self-absorption that drives me insane. People are asked to silence their cell phones. They don’t (and buddy, that rooster ringer is annoying!!!). They’re asked to respond “Here” when their names are called. They don’t. They don’t throw their garbage away. They laugh at the witty repartee blaring (and I mean BLARING) from REGIS and RACHAEL RAY and THE VIEW. But what really astounds me is that about half the people sitting here brought nothing to read. It’s like that SEINFELD episode where Puddy sits on an airplane next to Elaine with nothing to do, staring into space, driving her to (again) break up with him.

“You sure you don’t want something to read?”
“Nah, I’m good.”


I had lunch today. I don’t normally eat lunch, but with an hour and a half to kill, and not wanting to remain the corral, I figured I’d go get a nosh. And I ended up at Burger King. I don’t really do a lot of fast food, and couldn’t tell you the last time I was in a Burger King, but it was there. I had an Angus Loaded Burger, which is slightly less of a perfect disc than the regular Whopper burgers and something called “cheesy tots.” A woman near me prayed before digging into her repast. I wondered if she was praying not to get Mad Cow.

I will not be returning to Burger King for lunch tomorrow.

Thursday, May 22, 2008: DAY TWO
I got called near the end of the day yesterday for a trial, but I didn’t pass the voir dire. It was a civil trial in which a woman was suing the owners of the two buildings that happened to both be in front of the piece of sidewalk on which she tripped in 2004, hurting her neck, back and ankle. My gut reaction was to smell Bullshit the way she may well have smelled jackpot, and whatever happened to watching where you walk? While I wasn’t about to say out loud that I’d already pre-judged the case, I did answer honestly when the judge asked if I had any opinion on tort reform. I answered (at sidebar) that I thought we were an overly litigious society that too often abdicated personal responsibility, but that I strongly agreed that the right to sue is an important one. I assured the court that I could be impartial, and I did mean it (being a bartender, I’ve learned that while books usually are defined by their covers, it’s wise to retain an open mind).

I returned to the jury box and really thought that I was going to have to spend the next week-plus getting up at 6:30 AM, but as the next juror was called for interview, I was thanked and sent on my way. Relieved, but feeling slightly guilty.

I arrived this morning a half hour early, giant coffee in hand and settled into my little cubicle near the window. After suffering through the requisite two videos about the importance of civic duty and spiel from the clerk, I cracked my book (THE PORTABLE ATHEIST, only half chosen to make people leave me alone) as the TV began again blaring the mind-warpingly annoying Regis and whoever the F.... But that bleating was nothing compared to what happened next.

At about 9:40, over an hour after reporting time, a woman walked in pushing a stroller. And holding her slightly older tot’s hand. Two kids. At jury duty. But no worry… within about ten minutes, the baby started screaming. I mean, SCREAMING. At which point Mom was excused. (Finally, I see a good reason to have kids!)

Okay, so I have some sympathy for the possibility that this woman cannot afford to hire a babysitter. But if she’s that destitute and bereft of friends or family capable of watching the kids, then why didn’t she indicate that in her questionnaire? Or call the court the night before and explain the situation? Was she perhaps that ignorant of the process that she thought she could bring her brats into the jury box with her?

Oh, well, at least I wasn’t alone in my disbelief. I turned the other way and the two enormous women sitting near me were both shaking their heads in disbelief, at which point we all bonded over the stellar parenting skills / social consciousness of this mother of the year.

Oboy, time for Rachael Ray to ring in my brain. Maybe the logic is that by blasting annoying morning television, they’ll make the jury pool BEG to be put on a trial…. Uh-oh…. Hold on…..


POSTSCRIPT:
I lucked out. They pulled the jury for the last remaining trial, and my name did not randomly come up. The selection was completed, and I was freed, FREED, I TELL YOU, to go join Lysa for some well-earned margaritas at our favorite haunt.

I can only hope that I’m done with the legal system for a while…

Beware the Duggars!

So, I caught a story on CNN the other day about an Oklahoma family named the Duggars that’s expecting their 18th child. Eighteenth. Nine times two. Oh, and over the course of 11 years. So the woman is pretty much constantly pregnant. Like a cockroach. Naturally, most of the kids were dressed alike and they’re all home schooled, and the family plans to keep on squirting out progeny “as long as God wills it.”

Now, this story wasn’t presented in the manner I would have (were I a CNN producer, an unlikely career shift), with an apocalyptic tenor akin to reporting on a plague of rats and ignorance putting an end to all mankind, but as a breezy Mother’s Day human interest story. “Oh, my can you imagine how many Mother’s Day cards she gets? Tee Hee, the world keeps spinnin’! Gee, gas is expensive!”

To my further horror, with a little research, I found out that the Duggar family (helmed by, I shit you not, Jim Bob and Michelle) are mini-celebrities, the glib subjects of a TV show and a Discovery Health sub-website featuring such jovial sections as “Fun Facts” and “Name That Duggar!” Where’s the subsect on guessing how cavernous Michelle’s vagina has become? Do the babies just whoosh right out at this point, ala the Catholic Mom at the beginning of MONTY PYTHON’S MEANING OF LIFE? Just as disturbing to ponder, how, uh, difficult is it to, um, inseminate a vessel so large?

Brr. Anyway. If there were any example of proof that the so-called “liberal media” doesn’t exist, this story is it. Where’s the voice offering the possibility that this sanctimonious, narcissistic Divine overpopulation is a BAD thing not only for the Duggar clan (I was tempted to use a K there) but for the world at large? (My pal Bob did point out that in 2005, San Francisco Gate columnist Mark Morford wrote a blisteringly brilliant response, when the Duggars had a paltry brood of 16). Family values, my ass.

Not that I was shocked by the tone of the coverage. Despite the fact that I watch it A LOT, I really have a ton of disdain for CNN (and all the US cable news networks, MSNBC's brilliant and correct Keith Olbermann aside). The mewling prattle of the smiling anchors, usually unable to hide their own personal biases (I’m glaring at you, Tony Harris) is all morning-show friendly, regardless of the airtime. They happily propagate political non-issues, keeping stories like a dearth of flag pins and Reverend Wright in the public eye. The war is questioned while the military is paradoxically celebrated as infallible. Non-news stories about car crashes and house fires and liquor store robberies get coverage because, and ONLY because they have video (which should be an easy rule of thumb for television journalism: Would it be a worthwhile story if there were no pretty pictures to look at? No? Then it’s not news.).

Again, I’m not shocked. As with almost everything I see on the “news,” the clueless, happy tale of the Duggars just reinforces the ever-deepening rumbling in my gut that repeats a prophecy in a painful, gastric loop, sounding something like… “We’re fucked.”

At the Risk of Sounding...

One of my live show pet peeves is artists who scold an audience for talking. This is not to say that a yammering, inattentive crowd doesn’t suck. It does. But at a concert that takes place in a nightclub, it’s something that, with some exceptions, you simply have to accept. A nightclub (as opposed to a theater with seats) is a social atmosphere, where the music is just part of the experience. Not everyone there is there to hear the band, regardless of the cover charge they might’ve just paid. Some are there to hang out with friends, have some drinks, meet new people. For these patrons, the music is just background.

Most musicians realize this, whether they like it or not, and just deal. Some do not.

While working the bar Saturday night, I witnessed the biggest stage blowup I’ve ever seen. I’m not going to name names (you can figure it out, but let’s call him Lemmy). He’s a young singer songwriter who went through the sadly common wringer of getting signed to a major label right out of the gate, selling no records, and promptly getting dropped. So, there’s a chance he’s a bit bitter.

He’s still popular enough to draw a crowd, though, but here’s the thing: This guy’s bland, CW-ready brand of pop rock doesn’t exactly appeal to a discriminating group for whom music is a priority. In fact, much of his appeal lies in the fact that he’s got a real pretty face (Lemmy has also done some acting). The imagery surrounding Lemmy is all SEVENTEEN-ready, his shaggy hair and soulful eyes tailor-made for an audience that cares more about how their rave faves look than sound. This is evidenced by the mostly female crowds at this shows, the stripe of gal who gets all gussied up, hoping that he’ll notice her from the stage and bang ‘er in the bathroom. Or something. I’m just speculating, but I’d bet good money that 95% of the women at the show on Saturday night own SEX AND THE CITY DVDs.

And so, they talk. As they did on Saturday night as Lemmy and his band went through their set. About halfway through the show, though, Lemmy lost it. After delaying the start of a quieter song until everyone (temporarily) shushed, he started, then suddenly stopped, and SCREAMED at the audience:

“Shut the FUCK UP, you FUCKING ASSHOLES!!! Do you have any idea how hard it is to stand up here and do this while you RUDE PIECES OF SHIT are out there TALKING? HAVE SOME FUCKING RESPECT, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!”

Now, aside from the first line, this is not a verbatim transcript. But I swear, it’s close. He ranted at the top of his lungs before going back into the song. I just looked up, said a soft, “Really?” and watched the crowd react with mostly justified disbelief. One patron about my age walked to the bar shaking his head in disgust while others hooted or laughed and a few lowered their heads in penitence. And absolutely nothing was gained, onstage or off.


Some years back, Lloyd Cole, a far more accomplished, talented and successful singer-songwriter than Lemmy did two nights solo at the bar. I’m a big Lloyd fan, and was somewhat disappointed that the crowd the first night was not very attentive. There was enough chattering that it was a bit difficult for me to hear the show from behind the bar. The next night, before we opened doors, I talked to Mr. Cole about it, lamenting the behavior of the audience. But his reaction was the opposite of Lemmy’s.

Lloyd agreed that it sucked, but said that he was fully aware of the social environment of the nightclub, that not everyone was there to pay rapt attention to him, and if he couldn’t hold the crowd, that was his problem. This humble acceptance of a crappy situation was revelatory to me, and indicative of an artist that’s out to make music, not be aggrandized.

For an artist to yell at an audience is a no-win situation. The people who weren’t paying attention are just going to take umbrage and get louder. And some people who weren’t talking are likewise going to feel alienated. Nobody likes to be treated like a child, especially by someone as petulant as a screaming five year old begging for attention.

Dude, these people just paid $10 to come in and have a good time, not to be scolded by a spoiled wannabe rock star. And you know what else? You know who’s to blame for their inattentiveness? YOU ARE. YOU are the creator of the tepid, unchallenging background rock that doesn’t appeal to the kind of discerning music fans who pay attention (and I’ve witnessed many shows with completely silent sold-out audiences). If your music were more interesting, you wouldn’t draw a crowd that yammers on about old episodes of FRIENDS or not wanting to pay taxes or their hair or whatever the fuck they were discussing.

At the Risk of Sounding cold, Lemmy, This Ship’s Going Down. You should make a New Year’s Resolution and Cover Up, because If They Come Again, they’re not going to be Absolutely Still and you will be The Only One Lonely enough to not Get the Joke come High Noon.

Or, to use words that aren’t yours, you reap what you sow.

The Tilda Swinton Rule

My friend John has a theory he calls the Tilda Swinton Rule: If the actress is in a movie, it can’t be all bad. (I would argue this purely based on her part in Jim Jarmusch’s meandering yawner BROKEN FLOWERS, but that’s besides the point.) I thought about John’s theory because it held water in regards to the 47 year old actress’ unexpected Best Supporting Actress win for MICHAEL CLAYTON at the Oscars on February 24th.

I’ve got a checkered history with the Academy Awards. When I was a kid, I totally bought into the hype and the purported “importance” of the Oscars. I even remember getting inexplicably excited over victories such as when Dustin Hoffman’s Best Actor win in 1980 for KRAMER VS. KRAMER, a movie I hadn’t even seen at that point (and wish I could still say the same). When I got a bit older, I did probably host some Oscar Parties (but I honestly can’t recall).

But as I got a bit crustier in my 30s, my increasingly-cynical eye began to view the Oscars as a vainglorious circle jerk of the most overpaid, over-pampered people in the world giving each other shiny awards and displaying wretched excess that only served to inflate their already out-of-proportion sense of importance in the world. For years, the Whoopi-Billy-Robin hosting triumvirate was hellaciously torturous. And mostly, movies that I considered total crapola were being bestowed multiple awards that deigned to declare their parts and sometimes sums that superlative adjective, “Best:” FORREST GUMP. SCHINDLER’S LIST (well, I thought it sucked). GLADIATOR. And of course, TITANIC. Blech. No thanks. I stopped watching.

But when I reached the point some years back where I actually started getting paid to have opinions on popular culture, I grudgingly accepted that ignoring the Oscars is kinda like a sports writer deciding he’s going to skip the Super Bowl. I still despised the hype and the ridiculous attention to fashion and the fawning over Jack Nicholson (I like Jack, but c’mon) and the mostly insipid production numbers and the awful, unfunny patter shat out by Hollywood hack writers and awkwardly spat out by actors who often proved they should never do live theater. And I still disagreed with much of what was being declared “Best” (MILLION DOLLAR BABY was an awful, awful motion picture and I couldn’t friggin’ stomach Adrien Brody in anything until last year’s DARJEELING LIMITED).

So, this year’s Oscars (for which I did spontaneously host a small gathering) was kind of a surprise for me in that… I enjoyed it. First of all, Jon Stewart did a terrific job as emcee (and I didn’t think so two years ago). He was comfortable and funny and most of all, brought a welcome East Coast air of perspective to the proceedings. Secondly, there was no hideous huge opening production number (although almost all of the Best Song nominees were pretty painful). But most of all, I actually LIKED much of what won: I did indeed think that NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN was the best film of the year, and I loved MICHAEL CLAYTON and RATATOUILLE (my opinions are not as strong on THERE WILL BE BLOOD and I have chosen to not see JUNO, thank you very much). And it was great to see Hitchcock collaborator Robert Boyle get a well-deserved honorary award. When all was said and done, I thought it was perhaps the best Oscars I’d ever seen.

But I often forget how far outside of the mainstream my opinions tend to lie.

And so I was kinda stunned to discover that not only were the 80th Academy Awards the least watched since they starting keeping track, but that almost everyone else on Earth seemed to hate the show. Barbara fucking Walters complained that there was “no gwamour” and that she’d never heard of most of the nominees. Xenophobes bemoaned the fact that no Americans won an acting Oscar. Jon Stewart’s casual demeanor wasn’t sycophantic enough for the narcissists in Hollywood who demand constant butt-sucking. And most hilariously, people complained that the biggest movies at this year’s Oscars… weren’t BIG enough and were all so DREARY! Wah! I guess everyone was longing for the feel-good flicks of yore about police corruption, mental illness, debilitating disease and the Holocaust!

The problem wasn’t that NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN or THERE WILL BE BLOOD or MICHAEL CLAYTON were dreary (I didn’t find them dreary, I thought NO COUNTRY and MICHAEL CLAYTON were absolutely exhilarating), it’s that they weren’t dumbed down to reach a mass audience. What all three of those films have in common is that they challenge the viewer.

I saw MICHAEL CLAYTON late, just a week before the Oscars aired. I had seen only the first 45 minutes of it via hotel pay-per-view in early February, and was dying to see the whole film. So, one afternoon a few weeks back, my pal Gary and I did an afternoon double feature at the AMC Empire 25 in Times Square. About five seats across from us in the sparsely-attended screening sprawled a middle aged fella with his shoes off, his (thankfully) stocking-clad feet resting on the railing in front of him. “I just like to stretch out and have a little solitude in the afternoon, y’know what I mean? Little time to myself!!” he ranted, as I wondered why someone demanding solitude would choose a block of the world that is never, ever, at any time of day or night devoid of a sprawling throng of tourists.

As the advertainment gave way to the trailers, Mr. Sockitude got antsy. With each passing preview, he’d grouse, “C’mon, let’s start da fuckin’ movie already, fer Chrissakes!” I thought perhaps it was this gentleman’s first time in a movie theater, and what happened next only supported that premise.

As MICHAEL CLAYTON got underway, a couple seated behind us took out some contraband snackage, a smuggled in bag of SmartFood and opened it up. Anyone familiar with the physics of snack packaging knows that this act produces what is called a SOUND, a crinkling of paper and plastic that, while not pleasant, is to most, an acceptable reality of the filmgoing experience.

But not to Socky. He spun around in his seat and began to berate the couple. “JESUS, quit dat fuckin’ crinklin!’ Pour some into yer fuckin’ hands and eat it like dat! What da FUCK~!” This repeated itself a number of times until finally, under great duress, Mr. Sockitude put on his shoes and moved to the other end of the row, away from us, loudly bitching, not giving a crap that he was being ten times more disruptive than the cheddar-popcorn-munching patrons behind us.

The movie continued, and despite his distance, Socks continued to make his presence known to the whole theater. When the scene came where Tom Wilkinson describes to George Clooney a moral epiphany that occurred while two hookers were giving him a blowjob, Mr. Sockamagee whooped and hollered in glee. “HAHAHAH! YEAH!” He really liked the description of two whores taking turns sucking Tom Wilkinson’s joint.

But that, apparently, was the film’s sole high point for Sockeroony, because he left not too long after that. I guess the film’s explorations of moral ambiguity, corporate greed and personal redemption weren’t enough of a grabber for this brain trust.

I’m not saying that Chef Sock-ar-dee is the average moviegoer, or especially someone who throws Oscar Parties, but I’m betting that he didn’t get bored and walk out of THE DEPARTED. For once, the Academy actually awarded truly rewarding, challenging films, and what happens? It gets shit upon by everyone from the chowderheads on THE VIEW to freaking ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY who, in the current issue (the cover of which declares about the Oscars, “THEY WERE BORING!”) staggeringly recommends that next year they “Nominate More Hits.”

So, maybe Tilda Swinton won’t be making a return trek to the stage next year to pick up another statue that looks like her agent for her performance as Lady Macbeth in the upcoming COME LIKE SHADOWS. Maybe media darling Miley Cyrus will be getting Oscar’s first pre-emptive statuette for what’s sure to be an amazingly awesome HANNAH MONTANA: THE MOTION PICTURE coming in 2009!!! I would SURE DAMN LIKE TO SEE DAT!

I just hope nobody opens a bag of SmartFood behind me. That would suck.

Defending the Enemy

I cannot stand Kathy Griffin. I find her to be the epitome of Hollywood hypocrisy, someone whose entire shtick of trashing the superficial, narcissistic nature of celebrity is rooted not in a genuine disdain for it, but a jealous narcissism that’s every bit as despicable as the behavior of those she excoriates (I’ve heard stories from people who know her that back this up). I never thought she was funny (remember when she had a fifteen minute “bit” that was just about the fact that she had a line in PULP FICTION? Hilarious!!!), and still don’t.

NOW, having said that, I gotta back the bitch. For those who missed it, upon receiving an Emmy® for her Bravo reality show (at the B-Level Creative Arts Emmy ceremony, which I guess makes sense), Griffin said, "A lot of people come up here and thank Jesus for this award. I want you to know that no one had less to do with this award than Jesus. Suck it, Jesus. This award is my god now."

Immediately, of course, the Christian community came out against Griffin as if she were the Antichrist (as opposed to simply being anti-Christ). Catholic League President Bill Donohue called her comments “Hate Speech” (and he should know, being an expert practitioner himself against gays and non-Christians) and successfully lobbied E! to censor her statements from the broadcast when it aired.

Of course, as an avowed atheist who finds the concept of God to be the most damaging invention in the history of mankind, I found Griffin’s speech to be hilarious. But beyond that, I thought it was a refreshing change of pace and a challenge to the insipid tendency of award winners (in any field) to be so presumptuous as to declare that God (if it does exist) actually took an active hand in the acquisition of their shiny trophy. “Forget all those starving people, victims of war and general injustice in the world, I have to make sure that Rihanna wins a VMA!”

Now, I know that a lot of times, award winners aren’t LITERALLY claiming that the Almighty made their award win a personal project for that day, that they’re just giving general thanks to the deity in which they believe. But a lot of times, they DO seem to be taking that ridiculously self-absorbed notion of a guiding hand to a petty, ludicrous extreme (joining the silly ranks of God-thanking lottery winners, disaster survivors and game-winning athletes). If that idea is offensive not just to atheists like myself, but lots of Christians as well, then can we just please allow ONE PERSON to make a blasphemous gag about a lack of divine guidance?

Apparently not.

'Nuff Said! PLEASE!

So, SPIDER-MAN 3. My thoughts on this most bizarre romantic musical comedy can be found HERE, but I wanted to also make note of the moviegoing experience we had when John, Lysa, Gary, Andrea and I saw the blockbuster on opening Sunday. I know, what did I expect, going to a big summer movie on opening weekend? I knew there would be kids and loud jerks and cell phones going off, but it still never makes it all right.

The three stooges sitting right behind us in the balcony of theater 4 at the Union Square 14 were annoying enough during the previews, with their raucous enthusiasm for I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU CHUCK AND LARRY and SHREK THE THIRD (both of which I shall be skipping). But I don’t mind when people talk during the advertainment before the film. Just shut up when the feature starts. But instead, that was when the combination exposition / comedy show began. With the introduction of every new character and story element, Moe (their leader) would call the roll. “Symbiote.” “Sandman.” “New Goblin.” And then offer hilarious, loud commentary to the action as the story rolled along. When one of the many eye-straining CG battles ended, Moe cracked, “WHOA, he didn’t learn that at Tiger Schulmann!” to which Curly echoed, “Didn’t learn that at Tiger Schulmann!” which was the last straw for me, so I turned around and asked them to keep it down. When Moe didn’t hear me, I tapped him on the knee. “This guy’s touching me?” he stated to Larry in that alpha-male rhetorical tough-guy manner, to which I said, “Look, I’m sorry, but you guys are right in our ears and you’re ruining the movie for us!”

To which Moe actually said, “Hey, it’s not just us, everyone’s talkin’!” as if that made it okay. The upside is that, for the most part, the stooges did shut up for the rest of the movie, but the downside is that they weren’t the only distraction. The kid next to John felt that he had to show him how the screensaver on his cell phone was the image of Black-Spidey atop the church tower; Complaining kids grew understandably more and more impatient as the love story continued… and continued… and continued….

But the most disturbing incident happened (SPOILER ALERT) during the scene where Dark Peter accidentally clobbers Mary Jane. As MJ hit the floor of “The Jazz Club,” most of the audience gasped (the appropriate response), but throughout the theater, there was also a risible smattering of male applause.

SPIDEY 3 is by far the least enjoyable of the series, but its faults still don’t excuse a lack of courtesy from the crowd. By the end, after the villains were gone but before the story finished, many in the obviously restless audience got up and left, unapologetically blocking views and talking. It was an awful way for a bad moviegoing experience to end.

Again, I know… what did I expect. But also again, it doesn’t make it all right. The sad thing is, the next time there’s an event movie that I want to see, I’m finally gonna wait. I can’t do this anymore. I’ll try to figure out the least likely time and venue to encounter the stooges and the kids. I’ll hope that some semblance of civility will prevail and I’ll actually be able to focus on the movie in front of me instead of the horrible real world from which I’m trying to escape for two hours.

Idiots Rule.

It’s been a rather depressing week if you’re someone who feels beaten down by the ever-branching stupidity of the American people. First, this whole ridiculous Don Imus controversy, which, based on the coverage it’s getting in the news, is tantamount to King Bush coming out and saying, “Y’know what? That colored fella, Kanye West hit the nail on the head!” It’s DON IMUS, fer cryin’ out loud!! Who's shocked and, moreso, who gives a shit? I’m sure that there were hundreds of other idiotic DJs spouting crap across the country’s airwaves that morning that was every bit as offensive and stupid as Cowboy Don’s “nappy haired hoes” remark. Did he deserve to be called out on it? Sure. But to turn it into the biggest news of the week and infer that the Rutgers Basketball Team (and ALL WOMEN AND AFRICAN- AMERICANS) are permanently scarred by the offhand comment is as insulting to women and African-Americans as the initial statement.

In lesser, but also depressing news, GRINDHOUSE came out over the weekend and flopped big time (coming in #4 behind BLADES OF GLORY (Ha, ha, Will Ferrell fall down!), MEET THE ROBINSONS (parents, just say no!) and ARE WE DONE YET? (God, I hope so). I saw the movie with Fraulein Opfer and have to admit that I was pretty disappointed. I appreciated the esthetic and the effort (and very much appreciated Rose McGowan), but walked out of the theater amazed at how much fun I DIDN’T have. It was just okay. I spent a good portion of the three hours fairly bored and sporadically annoyed. Surprisingly, Robert Rodriguez’ PLANET TERROR was the better of the two films, and far more in the spirit of the exploitation films the double feature claims to celebrate. Quentin Tarantino’s DEATH PROOF, on the other hand, has some nice moments, but is far too talky to be an exploitation film. On top of the that, the second half of his film (in which two bad-ass stunt women and Rosario Dawson turn the tables on the homicidal Kurt Russell) is pretty much unbearable, with annoyingly mannered performances (QT’s dialogue [for the first time ever] feels totally unbelievable coming out of the mouths of these women) and plot points big enough to drive a Dodge Charger through. And no, the fact that it’s a hot-rod-serial-killer film doesn’t excuse it.

It is interesting to note that Tarantino’s most pro-feminist work is his least successful, creatively. I appreciate the idea of turning the tables on the women-in-peril genre and having a group of tough chicks literally turn the scarred, manly villain into a whimpering, emasculated simp. But for whatever reason (I have to think it’s just poor casting, another anomaly for a QT film), it just doesn’t play.

I think GRINDHOUSE would’ve benefited from even MORE editing. If both films were cut down to just over an hour (which easily could’ve happened), the whole experience would’ve been more exhilarating.

But more depressing than my lack of total enthusiasm for GRINDHOUSE is the fact that the general public is just too stupid to even UNDERSTAND what the movie is. Notices posted at the box office (at a theater smack in the midst of Manhattan, mind you) had to explain that the scratches, missing reels and fluctuating print quality in GRINDHOUSE are intentional, that it’s attempting to recreate an esthetic (of course, I’m paraphrasing, they wouldn’t use the word “esthetic”). And now word comes that the movie is going to be re-released as two separate films, partially because some people, unaware that they had paid for a double feature, GOT UP AND LEFT THE THEATER AFTER PLANET TERROR WAS OVER!!!!

I don’t expect the grindhouse esthetic to be everyone’s cup of tea. I understand that most people, especially younger folks, even if they’ve heard of or seen films like SHAFT, CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST or SATAN’S SADISTS, might not grasp the bigger picture of the culture of exploitation films. But that still doesn’t explain or excuse walking into a movie being so completely ignorant of what you’re about to see that you complain to the manager about the scratchy film and then leave halfway through because you think it’s over!!! It’s nothing but sheer stupidity.

Y’know what, fuck it. I’m gonna go see GRINDHOUSE again. Just to show support. And look at Rose McGowan some more. Holy Hot Cleft, Batman!

I am Urban Legend

So, the Tale of the Upturned Mercedes (see below) continued.

That night, the one thing that nobody could figure out was HOW on Earth, despite it being a bit slippery out, the car could’ve gotten turned on its end HALFWAY DOWN THE BLOCK. The cars at the beginning of the street were untouched, it was just our four vehicles in the middle of the block that were damaged. Turns out that the “bright light” the drunk driver saw was indeed a fire engine speeding down 10th Street that struck him and knocked him up on end.

The driver was still at fault, as he was drunk and ran a stop sign, but it’s an interesting note that has mostly been swept under the rug in this oh-so-corrupt little town. But there’s a part of the story involving myself that’s now become the source of amusement for the Hoboken police dept.

My neighbor pal Ann was present the night of the accident, so she saw everything, including my previously stated hesitance to lose my parking space by moving my dented Jeep so the fire dept. could flip the Benz and have it towed. To reiterate, the facts are as follows: I shouted two times that I didn’t want to lose my space after midnight in Hoboken. I then realized I was being silly and moved the car into a driveway a little further down the block. When the Benz was towed away, I was able to quickly return my car to its parking spot. No problem.

However, that’s not the story that’s being told at the Hoboken PD. The other evening, Ann was at Louise & Jerry’s, a local watering hole of note with her wienerdog, Ernsesto, having a celebratory bowl of water in honor of his graduation from Puppy School when she overheard some off duty cops discussing the accident.

They got most of the details right until they got to the part about my reluctance to move the Jeep. To paraphrase the cop, “So this guy wouldn’t move his car and when they flipped the Merecedes, it smashed into his car and ripped the side off of it!”

Not a shred of truth in it, but I’m sure by now the story has me getting run over by the tow truck. Just goes to show ya, do not believe everything you hear. Hell, don’t believe ANYTHING you hear. Especially if it comes from off duty cops at a bar.

Flippin' Jerk

It’s been a year for drunken assholes in cars. A few days after New Year’s, I was walking home from work one night when a stretch limo went by with a drunken idiot hanging out the window shouting at everyone he saw, “Hey! I won the lottery! Fuck you!” Nice to see that he’s putting his hard-earned winnings to good use. Regardless of how much this douchebag won, it’ll be gone by June.

But that wasn’t nearly as annoying as what happened Thursday night. I was in my usual spot, slingin’ drinks for the peeps when I got a phone call from my upstairs neighbor, Cara. Now, in the three-plus years that Cara’s lived above me, she’s only called me at work two times: Once when there was a fire and once when there was a scary guy sitting on the steps outside. So I knew right away it wasn’t good.

“Someone hit your car,” Cara said, and so, with Lysa covering me at the bar, I ran back home with Neel as my witness and restraint. About ten fire engines and another dozen cop cars filled the are surrounding the scene.

Seems that someone driving a brand spankin’ new 2007 Mercedez Benz decided that the best way to break it in was to get hammered and go speeding through the crammed, narrow streets of Hoboken NJ, making a too-fast turn off of Bloomfield and onto 10th St, at which point he “saw a bright white light,” slammed into a parked Saab, flipped up on his side and skidded into my Jeep (as well as the car parked behind me).

The damage to the Saab was substantial. The entire driver’s side was pretty much wiped out, and the rear bumper was pushed into the tire. I was comparatively lucky. He somehow only put a giant dent in my rear passenger side panel. He barely missed breaking the tail light and the window and bumper are unscathed. Still, as I watched the guy fail his sobriety test, I did fantasize about clocking him as the cops put the cuffs on him.

The funniest (okay, funny) part of the incident came when the cops asked me to move my car so they could flip the Benz back onto its wheels. I shouted (yes, SHOUTED) at the police, “I DON’T WANNA LOSE MY PARKING SPACE!! IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT IN HOBOKEN!!!” I relented, but stuck around long enough to reclaim it after the tow truck took das Deutsches wagon away. See? I told you people how premium parking is in this tiny hamlet!!

The irony is, just one day earlier, as I was driving to Target (a local shopping emporium), I was reveling in the fact that I’ve had my car for two and a half years in the most congested, overpopulated parking town in the country and nothing’s happened to it. In fact, one of the reasons I chose a Liberty is that its design makes it fairly resistant to the kinds of dings that occur in a town where double parking and pressed bumpers are commonplace.

So Friday, I called my insurance company, went to the police station for a copy of the report and now the game of “who’ll pay” begins. Oh, and the “funny” postscript: Turns out the guy works for Mercedes. The car he smashed (and oh, is it smashed) belongs to the company.

So, I’m sure they’re thrilled.

Hello, New Jersey!!!

So, I worked the Beck show at the Landmark Loew’s Jersey City on Saturday night. I didn’t get to see any of the show (which is fine, I’m ambivalent about Beck), but I could hear it from the cavernous lobby where we had set up our makeshift bar (no, not an open bar, as one particularly stupid girl asked). And I got to hear something that I hear a lot working the bar at a rock club in the great state of New Jersey…

Beck came out to do his first encore to the strains of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.” Oh, Beck! I can truly see why people call you a genius!! You’re playing in New Jersey! How brilliantly hilarious to bust out some Bon Jovi! Ha ha ha! Nobody’s ever thought of that before!!!!

Actually, it’s as lame and as old as yelling “Free Bird!” I have heard dozens, if not hundreds of bands either perform a live chorus or take the stage to a recording of (a) Bon Jovi or (b) Bruce Springsteen (actually, there’s just as much Frank Sinatra, but I think that’s exclusively a Hoboken occurrence while Bon and the Boss “tributes” are statewide).

Does this happen in other states? Do touring bands playing in Tennessee feel obligated to sing a little “Jailhouse Rock?” Does every other troubadour strumming in California trill some Beach Boys? Is an ironic cover of the CHEERS theme de rigeur for combos passing through Massachusetts? I doubt it.

But Jersey has such a strong iconography that it’s almost impossible for visitors to just let it pass. And that’s fine. Those of us who reside in the perhaps ironically tagged “Garden State” are not only immune to the jabs, we embrace them. New Jersey is one of the only states that engenders a sense of identity that’s bigger than civic. As far as I’ve seen, only two states’ outlines have become common tattoos: New Jersey and Texas.

But while Texans display a sense of arrogance about their giant (if backwater) state that is practically begging for recession from the union (please), Jerseyites wear the badge almost defensively. Yeah, I’m from Jersey, what about it, douchebag? But don’t think it’s irony; most of us love this stinky state, corruption, bureaucracy, pollution, dirty beaches, closeted ex-governors, bad musical icons, mobsters and all. Mock all you want. We… don’t… care.

But bands, how about doing a Smithereens cover next time through?