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Friday, August 22, 2003

OUT OF BOWNE ON THE TWENTY-TWO...

Today was my final day in the techpool. If you've noticed me bitching less and less about Bowne over the past few months, it's because I've had less and less to complain about. While the first few weeks were rocky, I've come to enjoy the people I work with, and the enviroment. Truth be told, I will miss Bowne. I've told HR to keep me in mind if new positions open up, and I've told XB to contact me when things get busy in December. And who knows? Perhaps grad school will not work out in the end. Not that I'm being pessimistic, but it's good to have a backup plan. XB told me I'm qualified to try for project manager, or at least something higher on the food chain than techpool worker. In all honesty, I wouldn't mind it at all.

So if anyone from the office (like the recently-departed May Badweather) is actually reading this: It was a fun 2-and-two-thirds months. I learned a valuable lesson, that I am smarter than the computer, yet dumber than the vending machine. I will miss all of you. See you soon.

Wednesday, August 20, 2003

I've given it some thought, and I've decided that maybe librarian school might not be so bad after all. Kudos to all who helped talk me through my dilemna. Should I not change my mind a second time, and end up becoming some kind of library administrator, jobs will be available to all of you down the line.

Now I've got to figure out if New Brunswick does indeed suck, or is it just because I hadn't been there before. It's an honest-to-God town. I live next door to a brick wall with the name of the adjacent convenience store painted on it. It's like something out of "Northern Exposure." My God, I've chosen to live in Sicily, New Jersey.

Sunday, August 17, 2003

Okay, folks, I need to know something. Those of you out there, my friends, who gave me lots of moral support when I announced I was going to study Library Science--was it because you thought, "Library Science? That's so COOL!" Or was it because you're my friends and so naturally, you support my decision, whatever it is? Now, I am not upset that you supported my decision. I like it when decisions I make are supported, and I hope many of you will continue to do so in the near future.

However, I have to ask about the nature of your support because, frankly, I'm having second thoughts. Yes, I know I've signed a lease, filled out financial aid papers, gotten a work-study position, etc. But I AM HAVING SECOND THOUGHTS. Those two days in the sub-basement of Bobst might have actually done me good, because I had a lot of time on my hands to think, and the thought that kept echoing in my brain was, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

I admit it, the whole schmiel I wrote on my application letter: "My primary reason for applying to the Library Science program is my love of research."--pure bullsh*t. Yes, I love discovery, uncovering brave new secondary sources, playing archaeologist in the library-version of the Gobi desert. But let's face it, the majority of what constitutes being a librarian is looking up books and being courteous to strangers. In other words, helping people. I hate people, much less helping them. And the money to be made--what money? There's no money to be made in Library Science, or else everyone would be studying Library Science. And to get a good reference librarian position, I'd have to earn a second Master's degree in a completely separate subject...!

And yet, many have told me that I'd make a good librarian. I didn't ask then, but I need to ask now: Why would I make a good librarian? Is it because I seem like a total prig, because lots of people in different professions also seem like total prigs.

Look, I'm not making this sound as serious as I want it to sound. Seriously, SERIOUSLY (I bought birthday presents for many of you, and while I don't consider those to be binding contracts of any kind, I think they do entitle me, upon request, to a certain level of candidness) Consider what you know about me, what you think about the subject of Library Science, what you think about two years in graduate school studying Library Science, and tell me honestly: DO YOU THINK IT'S A GOOD IDEA THAT I SPEND THE NEXT TWO YEARS, NOT TO MENTION QUITE A BIT OF LOAN MONEY, STUDYING LIBRARY SCIENCE? Operators are standing by. As is the rest of my life.

Friday, August 15, 2003

TWO DAYS IN THE BASEMENT

It's funny, I've taken shelter inside a university building while an unexpected disaster grips the city outside, I've had limited food to eat for the last 36 hours, no change of clothes, no toothbrush, I've had to sleep among strangers--and I can't help thinking my life has become dull. A less-than-palatable summer TV schedule. Stuck in perpetual repeats.

As you probably know by now, a major power failure hit the northeastern United States yesterday. Whether the blackout area was even more extensive I cannot say. Internet has only recently been restored, and reports on the news sites claim blackouts occurred as far into the central United States as Ohio. Where was I when the lights went out? Like most people, at work in midtown. One minute, it was business as usual; the next, we're filing carefully down twelve flights of stairs in near-darkness to the street outside. We certainly weren't the only ones.

The sight of large masses of people exiting Manhattan all at once brought back shades of the World Trade Center attack less than two years ago. However, everyone seemed calmer on the whole this time around. Strange, but there seemed to be more shock and alarm on peoples' faces when police told them we WEREN'T under a new terrorist attack. What this says about New Yorkers nowadays, I cannot say. I was too busy blaming terrorists at the time, and did not give it much thought.

My colleagues both lived on the upper West side, and they planned to take taxis to get back to their respective apartments. I decided to turn down 7th Avenue and walk to Union Square. From there I planned to go to Bobst Library, which I had once heard had its own generator. An hour or so later, I arrived at Bobst. As I expected, the lights were on, as the building ran on its independant power supply. Correction: the sub-basements and the lobby were running. The upper floors were left dark, so as not to tax the generator.

I stayed around the "bus station," nickname for the lounge adjacent to Bobst, always open to the public. From there, I could see that the streetlamps outside had yet to come back online. Nor were the subways running, according to a nearby radio. Luckily for me, the NYU ID scanner was also offline, so I could flash my outdated NYU ID card, and that would be enough to gain access. I went to sub-basement A, which was stuffy (the air-conditioning was probably cut back as well), but well-lit.

A sidenote: I consider myself very lucky to have been able to gain access to Bobst Library. My home is in Marine Park, Brooklyn, and if not for the interventions of Providence, I would have had to traverse the lower east side, then cross the Williamsburg Bridge, in order to reach the appropriate bus. Meanwhile, I did not have enough money for a taxi, and outgoing traffic over the bridges, I have heard, was bumper-to-bumper.

I spent the night, last night, in sub-basement A. I am still here in sub-basement A, waiting to hear when the subways will start running again. As I write this, electricity has been restored to the city. Perhaps in another six to nine hours, the subways will be restored as well. I should turn in for a good night's sleep, then check again in the morning.

There are accommodations here at Bobst for homeless souls like myself. Plenty of fold-out cots--actually sheets of green canvas stretched between crossed metal tentpoles. They feel a lot like hammocks. Cotton pillows, and 100% acryllic green blankets. Scratchy and uncomfortable, but better than nothing. We get plenty of Poland Springs bottled water (the official beverage of Blackout 2003!), enough to last us weeks. Food, however, is limited to Nutri-grain fruit bars or yogurt bars. I've eaten five of them today, and according to the wrapper, they are an excellent source of Vitamin C and calcium. They are hardly the makings of a nourishing meal, but they are all we have, since the restaurants and stores around campus remain closed.

There is, however, plenty of intellectual nourishment available. Sub-basement A is adjacent to the leisure reading shelves, and it seems I have plenty of time on my hands! So far, I have read John Burdett's Bangkok 8, a well-written thriller, and I'm currently reading an Elmore Leonard novel. Like I said, plenty of time on my hands!

My recent ordeal may sound like the makings of quite an adventure. Yet in my opening paragraph, I described my life as seeming stagnant. You see, I spent quite a few nights in hurricane shelters when I lived in Miami. The shelter was in my college campus, so I suppose I've gotten used to these kinds of accommodations. (Although, back in Miami, I had time to pack a toothbrush!) I feel I've stayed in enough emergency domiciles, and I wouldn't mind a different kind of excitement. How about the thrills of finally renting my own place? I'll probably get to experience that once I start grad school this fall. I'll have to get out of this basement first, however...

Wednesday, August 13, 2003

Who says I hate people?


Short story: On Weightlessness, and its Opposite (From the archives, never before published.)

Joseph Celestano, world-renowned taste-tester, sits on a park bench near the street fair beside the Metropolitan Museum. A woman dressed as a bride, accompanied by a handsome man in a tuxedo, gallop by, calling attention to themselves. They cut an elegant path through the gathered Saturday masses and into the nearby trees. Joseph, curiosity piqued, follows them at a distance (Not because he is cautious, but because he suffers from a bit of a weight problem, and thus lags behind anyway).

The couple, arm-and-arm, lead him to an elaborate wedding ceremony. There are guests everywhere snapping photographs. Bridesmaids cavort in Pepto Bismol-pink dresses. Joseph, in his oversized raincoat and “Woody Allen”-esque hat, which he wears to mask his receding hairline, feels incredibly underdressed, but he remains only because he spots the most beautiful woman he has ever seen standing next to the buffet table. Her name is Dora van Doren. She is in attendance as a bridesmaid. Dora is tall, blond, and has a body of such voluptuous proportions that a ragtime band breaks out whenever she starts to walk, even at the cemetery or in an elevator. Joseph is instantly smitten.

It turns out they have a common passion. Dora loves food, and they spend the next few hours discussing the most potent wines and satisfying chocolate mousses. She is the heiress to the Van Doren communications empire, but Joseph, who already earns a generous salary tasting every new food product whipped up for consumption, is not tempted by the money. Despite his visible weight problem, the beautiful Dora seems attracted to him. Joseph is suspicious at first, since his previous relationships with woman were not exactly the most satisfying. He is already self-conscious, despite one previous lover who had disclosed to him, “Your naked body is quite glorious, Joseph, particularly when viewed in complete darkness.”

Somehow, Joseph overcomes his self-consciousness. During a heated discussion involving clam chowder—whether it is an appetizer, as Joseph contends, or a beverage, as Dora vehemently argues, the two fall into a passionate kiss. The statuesque beauty and the… compelling gentleman! Photographers snap photos, while the priest performing the ceremony sniffs cautiously about for brimstone.

Fast-forward several months. Joseph Celestano and Dora van Doren are engaged. Outwardly, Joseph seems content, but inwardly, he suffers. For Joseph has finally begun noticing his fiancee's eating habits. Dora constantly eats, and not so much eats as gorges herself in the fashion of large aquatic mammals. She constantly devours. An entire pizza or gallon of ice cream in one sitting, a pan of ravioli for a midnight snack. This has always been her way, she once explained. She admits that she doesn’t exercise, and while at the moment she remains both lean and stunningly beautiful, with nary a trace of cellulite detectable to the eye, Joseph can’t help but wonder if, years down the line, it will not be safe for his sweetheart to ride on elevators.

It is a testament to the shallowness of the male ego that, while Joseph himself is overweight, he finds that same characteristic in a potential wife unacceptable. Yet Joseph is aware of this weakness in himself, ashamed of it actually. He refrains from broaching the subject with Dora, fearing both hypocrisy and the loss of her.

Joseph has a younger brother named Rudy, who had also been a food-tester, until an overdose of MSG permanently dehydrated his taste buds. Ever since, Rudy Celestano has had parched lips and is constantly thirsty. As he siphons an entire gallon of spring water, he warns Joseph that he will inevitably regret marrying Dora, whom he predicts will degrade into obesity. Rudy, it should be noted, had a wife at one time, but they split due to what he called, “irreconcilable differences.” At the divorce hearing, his ex-spouse referred to him as “the most loathsome human being she ever had the misfortune of encountering,” and added that whenever the two prepared to make love, she had the irrepressible urge to slit her own wrists. Rudy retains hope that he and his ex-wife may yet reconcile.

Months pass without any visible change in Dora, though she continues to devour enough saturated fat to kill a small family of polar bears. She remains slim and stunning, and as the wedding day draws near, Joseph finds himself increasingly anxious. Then he gets to meet Dora’s parents for the first time. The senior van Dorens, Walt and Mona, invite the couple to their beach house for a weekend to get acquainted. According to Dora, the estate is quite modest. “It’s not nearly the size of the one in Citizen Kane,” she says. However, she notes, “from its spot on the beach on Daddy’s private island, it gets a lovely view of the Australian coast.”

Walt and Mona are courteous hosts, almost as polite as the security guards who frisk Joseph as he steps out from the plane at the van Dorens’ personal airport. Looking at Dora’s parents, Joseph recognizes a couple that has been together a long time. Thanks to years of cohabitation, Walt and Mona have developed near-identical hand gestures, smiles, and facial hair. Walt van Doren bears a strong resemblance to Sam Elliott. Mona, meanwhile, turns out to be, well, an ample-sized woman, to be kind about it. At dinner, she ends up exacerbating Joseph’s fears when, as she gazes down at the younger Dora, she remarks, “Looking at you now, dear, I see myself at your age. Would you believe, Joseph, that at one time I was just as much a head-turner as her…?”

It was meant as a compliment to Dora, of course, but her suitor cannot reply. He is too absorbed in staring at Mona, whom he perceives as his own wife several years down the line. The future Dora van Doren, no longer slim and beautiful. Joseph feels that he is becoming ill.

The van Dorens, for their part, more than readily accept Joseph as a future son-in-law. In fact, they had traced his last name, Celestano, to his ancestor Gianni Celestano, who had been the personal food taster of Archbishop Otto XI. It had been documented at the Archbishop’s rectory in Florence that Gianni Celestano, before one fateful supper, ingested some poison capon that had been prepared by Otto XI’s enemies. Joseph’s ancestor’s last words had been, “the capon is dry.” Then he dropped dead onto a plate of roast pheasant. The rectory was moved by Celestano’s sacrifice, and the Archbishop released an edict that very same evening: “Death to anyone who allows the capon to get dry.” The law remained active in Florence for the next hundred years.

As for the descendant, Joseph, he wishes he could get off so easily. Instead, he is consumed by his dilemna, which only a person of his shallowness could actually see as a dilemna, being engaged to a beautiful, rich woman whom he shares the same electric passion, and whose parents accept him with open arms. Yet he fears the impending marriage. He has visions of Dora’s inevitable decline. Joseph Celestano, in the lavish guest room of the Van Doren manor, tears at the remnants of his hair, uncertain of what to do, how to politely call off the engagement without wounding poor Dora’s feelings. In the end, caught between either confronting Dora or going through with the marriage, Joseph does the only honorable thing: he swallows an entire bottleful of aspirin.

Joseph Celestano wakes up in the van Doren's private hospital, his beloved Dora and his future in-laws hovering over him. They have worried looks on their faces. Joseph remembers the aspirin overdose. “I had a headache,” he replies, a sheepish smile masking his guilt. “I, uh, had a really bad headache. I think it’s gone now.”

Feeling guilty over the failed suicide attempt, Joseph does not try a second. And so, the marriage of Joseph Celestano and Dora van Doren proceeds as planned. Bound to Dora in the eyes of the church and God, Joseph finds himself sinking into a quagmire of depression. He can no longer get enjoyment from life, not even from food, his lifelong passion. The sight of it reminds him of Dora’s inevitable fate, and so he shuns it, focusing his energies on producing and starring in a syndicated exercise program instead.

The program becomes a hit, and shown all over the world on the van Dorens’ cable television network. Poor Dora, however, is left neglected at home. Worse yet, she finds herself less attracted to her husband with each passing day, as he sheds pounds like a refugee at the English border crossing. The day Dora finds she can wrap both arms around her husband, she becomes inconsolable. Well, almost inconsolable. A gallon of cherry ice cream and pint of rasberry liquor later, she slurs the word “divorce” on the phone to the van Dorens’ lawyer. Naturally, her teeth are a succulent red.

The divorce turns out to be the best for both parties. Dora flies to Japan, where she rediscovers herself in sushi. As she tries to put the failed marriage behind her, many suitors vie for her attention. Not surprising, for she remains stunningly beautiful. But the only man to ever make her fall so hard again is the national sumo wrestling champion. Legend has it that, during dinner at the most well-known sushi place on the island, they collected so many empty saki cups between them that it took spelunkers two days to dig them out. Joseph, meanwhile, remains a media darling. He even develops a following in France, where only the most unpalatable icons flourish.

In fact, Joseph decides to relocate the program to Paris, after falling in love with a bakery shopnymph named Linette. Joseph was immediately smitten with her, after overhearing that her eating habits consist of mineral water and induced vomiting. Also, that she never goes out-of-doors for fear the smog would go straight to her ankles. The two marry in a simple ceremony, and soon after Linette becomes pregnant. Much to Joseph Celestano’s alarm, Linette has already put on an unprecedented amount of weight.

PHIL'S SITCOM-WORTHY MISADVENTURES CONTINUE!

There was a surprise bridal shower in the office yesterday. Naturally, May Badweather enthusiastically promoted the event; think e-mails with big, block letters and exclamation points. I hear she was also the host.

Since I didn't know the bride too well, I decided not to attend. Other members of the techpool, who did attend, were nice enough to steal me a big slice of cake. Thick chocolate cream and rich, cream cheese icing. I felt decidedly unwieldy after eating that slice, and more so after I stole a second one from the fridge.

Rather than drag ten newly-acquired pounds of sugary whipped cream onto the subway, I turned down 34th Street and took it upon myself to walk to the Virgin Megastore on 14th. The weather that afternoon was only mildly stifling. I stuck my head between my knees only every other street.

I found the Virgin Megastore to be ingesting and perspiring customers at about the same rate that I was perspiring, uh, perspiration. I went down a flight to the DVD store, then perused the various bargain bins. There was more cellophane-wrapped booty on display there than in Times Square during the 80's. Among the discounted items lay a copy of Brian DePalma's 1980 flick, "Dressed to Kill."

Having resolved to curb my spending, I was hesitant to spill the $10 plus tax. Yet here was a movie I had wanted to see for years, by one of my top 300 movie directors, and on sale! What a dilemna! How difficult to find old DePalma movies in video stores, even in Brooklyn. I knew that if I passed, then crossed paths with it again, only to find it selling for five to ten dollars more, I would positively kick myself. What the Hell, I said to myself. I bought the DVD.

So I brought my new copy of "Dressed to Kill" home. Then I went online, as I am wont to do when I arrive home from work every day. In the course of my daily half-hour or so of Internet travails, I logged onto e-Bay, just to see how an auction of "Gangs of New York" was proceeding. Then my personal e-Bay shopper informed me that it found a copy of "Dressed to Kill" on DVD--for only $1.00! Nothing approaching that level of cheapness had appeared before!

Now, I haven't unwrapped the DVD yet, so I am thinking of bidding on the e-Bay DVD, then returning the one I purchased, should I win. But the auction won't end for another week. It almost doesn't seem worth it, not to save five or six dollars.

I might do it anyway! But then I won't be able to enjoy the movie for at least another week! This is all the cake's fault! Clearly, if there is anything to be learned from these strange and stressful events, it's that marriage sucks. Don't get married, and if you do, please buy a lighter cake.

Tuesday, August 12, 2003

THE PIZZERIA WHAT UP AND LEFT...

** Warning! Melodrama ahead. **

So I was at Forbidden Planet the other day, checking out the latest comic books I had no intention of buying. After exiting Forbidden Planet, I walked up a block to Union Square, then hung a left at the Virgin Megastore. (Prior to checking out all the latest comic books I had no intention of buying, I stopped here at the Virgin Megastore, where I perused the various discounted DVD's, which I also had no intention of buying.) Money still in my pocket, I was going to stop by this pizza place where I had lunch almost every day last summer. This would have been summer 2002, when I was still employed by NYU Press.

To my surprise, my once-favorite cozy little pizza place was now under new management. The change had taken place sometime in the last year. Whether it had been a sudden upheaval or a gradual phasing out of the old guard remains a mystery. What cannot be denied, though, is that the small group of Asian staffers who once worked there were now gone. That included this cute Chinese girl who always stood behind the cash register.

It's actually kind of funny. Since I got food there every day, I started saying hello, expressing pleasantries. One day she informed me that we lived on the same block in Brooklyn. As people who have gotten to know each other tend to do, I asked her when her shift ended, and offered to walk her home. She gave me this slightly askew look, and asked if I had a job. I told her I was an office monkey for NYU Press. Then she asked me if I was still in college. I told her I had graduated NYU. She quickly shook her head and said, Sorry, I prefer to go home by myself.

Now contrary to what the newspapers may have reported, I did not go stalker on her. Nor did I pursue her any further, seeing as how I still had every intention of eating there every day. The food, after all, was very good and reasonably priced. For the remaining month I worked at NYU Press, the cashier girl and I stayed on friendly terms.

Still, I sometimes wonder what went wrong. Was it the office monkey bit? Was it the NYU? Maybe she thought I was too good for her, given my much-vaulted education, and her being just a lowly pizzeria worker. I probably should have mentioned that I delivered pizzas for two years myself, and that there is nothing shameful in it. Or maybe it was just because I'm a green man.

Monday, August 11, 2003

I CAN SEE CLEARLY NOW THE RAIN IS GONE...

So an e-mail made its way around the office today. May Badweather, whom I have bitched about more than once over the last three months, is leaving. Friday will be her last day.

I think I'm gonna miss her.

Sunday, August 10, 2003

NEVER TRUST YOUR PRINTER. YOUR PRINTER COULD BE WRONG!

First I can't print anything because it says I'm out of color ink. On a whim, I decide to take out the ink cartridge, put it back in, and reset the printer. Now it says the color ink batteries are full! I almost blew $30 on a new color ink cartridge! It felt full! It's still full!

Never buy an Epson printer, folks. Just flush your money directly down the toilet and save your shoes the additional wear.

*** SPOILERS AHEAD! ***

Let’s talk about Peter Chan’s “Comrades,” the best film of 1996. Firstly, it looks brilliant, like a cross between Wong Kar-Wai’s aggressive editing style and a sensitive French movie. Leon Lai plays an ignorant mainlander, recently arrived in the hustling, bustling Hong Kong. Maggie Cheung plays a smart, strong, independent Hong Konger, who takes Lai under her wing. But is Lai as simple as he seems, and is Maggie that smart and strong?

As Halifax pointed out to me last month, it is a melodrama, but a great one. In my humble opinion, the movie is compelling because the characters aren’t simple. Had “Comrades” been made in Hollywood, it would have starred Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, playing their usual nice-equals-bland Nora Ephron-written types. They would have fallen in love slowly, and they wouldn’t have shared a chaste kiss until the closing minutes of the film. In “Comrades,” our two main characters, out of loneliness—or could it be love?—end up in bed together. Quite a few times. But they deal with it, like friends in real life would have to deal with it.

There’s another scene where Maggie Cheung gets propositioned by a gangster. She refuses. Then, several weeks later, the same gangster, who seems to respect her more as a result of her refusal, propositions her again. This time, she accepts (Or so it is implied.) Let’s see Meg Ryan do that.

I liked this movie a lot. It is not just a romance, but a story of immigrants who get lost in the big city. I cannot say whether any of it rings true, but it feels like it would ring true. For our characters, there are big dreams, bouts of crushing loneliness, optimism in the face of hopeless adversity, love and friendship. You know, big city-type stuff. The ingrediants of real life.

Note:

If there is one problem I have with “Comrades: Almost a Love Story,” it is the scene which I dub the “Somebody kill those fucking niggers” scene. Maggie Cheung and the gangster, now her husband, move to New York City. One day, while Maggie goes to pick up the laundry, her husband, who is sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette, is murdered by a bunch of black children. My problem is, there are a number of black bystanders on hand—some of them sitting on the same stretch of sidewalk. They watch as the mugging and murder occur, but they do nothing.

Now, I’m not expecting them to help the gangster fight off these kids. But while New Yorkers are a callous lot, if they witness an assault a few feet from their faces, they will at least do SOMETHING. They will yell “Hey man, be cool! Be cool!” They will go call a cop. You read about similar situations all the time. But “Comrades,” and writer Peter Chan, in turn, seem to be saying, “These black people don’t care about anybody.”

If I was unfamiliar with black people, and I’m not sure how many black people the Hong Kong audience would encounter on a daily basis, I would react to a scene like the one in “Comrades,” with: “Somebody kill those fucking niggers!” The movie makes black people seem like the worst people in the world. We’re not just talking that one scene. Sure, white people are made out to be jerks, too, but there is one redeemable white guy in the film. I don’t know. Was 1993, the year in which that scene took place, the year in which urban black people stood around as murders took place inches from their faces? Or does this movie reflect the dislike yellow people seem to have for black people? You talk to yellow people, especially immigrants, and you will find that many of them dislike black people.

WEEKEND UPDATE TIME!

Things I'm reading: Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, by Tom Robbins

Movies I'm watching: “Eyes Wide Shut,” directed by Stanley Kubrick. “Comrades: Almost a Love Story,” directed by Peter Chan.

*** SPOILERS AHEAD! ***

A great weekend for movie watching. For four years, I had put off viewing Stanley Kubrick's "Eyes Wide Shut," due to the plethora of negative reviews for it. But it was the man's final directorial effort, and I figured, "It's been four years. You've always liked Kubrick's work. You might was well watch it." Well, I watched it.

For the life of me, I can't see why so many people hate this movie. It's extremely well-made. Certainly, it requires patience to view. But it's also incredibly fascinating, exploring the illusions and false assumptions of both women and marriage. I mean, who hasn't assumed that marriage requires an emotional deadening of the self? I myself always figured that once a ring is slipped over a finger, that ring-bearing person can not, should not, must not even look at a member of the opposite gender. However, the truth, it seems, is more complicated than that.

So poor Tom Cruise plays a doctor who discovers his wife is capable of being unfaithful to him. Well, not unfaithful in the Biblical sense, but unfaithful in her mind. Nicole Kidman, the wife, definitely loves him, but admits she was attracted to another man once. No tryst occurred, yet the attraction was so strong that she desperately wanted a tryst to occur. This completely blows Cruise's mind. As he wanders the streets of New York (actually a set built on Kubrick's property) trying to deal with this, reality suddenly becomes this surreal sexual playground, with both temptations and threats to his sexual identity lurking around every corner. Can he bring himself to cheat on his wife physically, as a means of revenging her mental cheating?

Had a lesser filmmaker attempted “Eyes Wide Shut,” it could have ended up resembling some kind of grown-up teenage sex comedy. Tom Cruise spends the brunt of the film trying to get some, is on the verge of getting some, and then someone or something intervenes. Like all Kubrick films, however, there is a dark, sinister edge that keeps the pattern of failed liasons from becoming too ridiculous. Yes, the world becomes a simmering pot of bubbling-over sexual opportunity. But the sex being offered always threatens to be dehumanizing, and Cruise finds that he simply cannot use women for sex.

Take, for example, the scene with the prostitute played by Vanessa Shaw. They are on the verge of engaging in illicit activity, but then Cruise’s cell phone rings. It is Nicole Kidman calling him. After speaking to her, Cruise returns to the hooker and finds he cannot go through with what he had intended. We assume he withdraws because of the guilt he would feel cheating on his wife. Especially since she called him so recently. I prefer to evaluate the scene on a more symbolic level: Cruise has rented this hooker for sex. He would sleep with her only because he finds her sexually attractive. He is not interested in her on any other level, and certainly not on the emotional levels with which he loves his own wife. The call from the wife reminds him of that emotionally-involved, non-dehumanizing form of sex. His wife saves him from becoming an unfeeling, sexual robot, the types of character that thoroughly populates the film.

Then Cruise crashes a mysterious orgy, and he is threatened with what could be anal rape or genital mutilation. Kubrick directs these scenes in a way that is unnerving. All the participants wear masks, and talks in strange voices. This supports the theme of dangerous, dehumanizing sex.

And you’ve got to love the ending. Cruise returns from his disturbing sexual odyssey, and Kidman awakens from her mental one. You’d think, having gone through their respectively traumatizing experiences, that any thoughts of ever straying would be banished from their heads. Not so easy. As Cruise says, “No dream is ever just a dream.” When he tries to reassure Kidman that they will be married forever, she recoils from the thought. “Don’t say that word, forever,” she tells him. “That word terrifies me.” Ironically, Cruise and Kidman would divorce two years later. Were the problems of their real-life marriage reflected in this movie? Not necessarily. Art imitates life as much as life imitates art; their real-life marriage was as real as the celluloid one. As “Eyes Wide Shut” makes us ponder, what is marriage but one person with two sets of thoughts and desires? And while our spouses may keep us from engaging in simplified, dehumanizing sex, that does not mean we ourselves become simple.

Wednesday, August 06, 2003

TEN FOR THE ROAD:

Since others are posting top ten movie lists, I guess I'll post one, too.

10. Once Upon a Time in China, (d) Tsui Hark
9. Drugstore Cowboy, (d) Gus Van Sant
8. The Graduate, (d) Mike Nichols
7. Chungking Express, (d) Wong Kar-Wai
6. Delicatessen, (d) Jean-Pierre Jeunet
5. Citizen Kane, (d) Orson Welles
4. Annie Hall, (d) Woody Allen
3. Once Upon a Time in America, (d) Sergio Leone
2. The Third Man, (d) Carol Reed
1. Taxi Driver, (d) Martin Scorcese

Let the ridicule begin!

COOKIE MONSTER IS A CRAZY SON OF A B*TCH...

So my 2-year old niece came over today. Cute kid, can barely talk, thinks I'm the coolest. Obviously, she is wise beyond her years. We watched taped reruns of "Sesame Street" together.

It probably escaped my attention back when I was her age, but I realize now that Cookie Monster is a total psycho. First he puts a cookie in a briefcase, but when he lifts up the briefcase, he realized there's a hole cut out of the bottom. His reaction:

COOKIE MONSTER:

Hey! Why me got hole in briefcase? Oh well, guess me eat cookie! Num num num num num!

(Cookie is gone.)

Now me eat briefcase! Num num num num num num num!

(Begins devouring briefcase from inside out.)

How me get in briefcase? Me eat way out! Num num num num num!

God bless you, Cookie Monster. You're like a furry, blue, cookie-eating id.

Tuesday, August 05, 2003

AND I WAS JUST BEGINNING TO ENJOY THOSE HEALTHY PAYCHECKS...

After two months full-time here at Bowne, peak season is winding down. I ran macros on approximately two files today, and did absolutely nothing the rest of the time. That's two files, equal to about twenty minutes. What did I do for the remaining six and a half hours? Absolutely nothing. Okay, I cruised the Net some, but no one can cruise the next for six-plus hours. The Net ain't that interesting.

The days of wine, roses, and 40-hour work weeks are coming to an end. There has been speculation that as early as next week, we will be moving to 4-day work weeks, possibly even 3-day work weeks. Granted, I was planning to quit by the end of August anyway, but I was hoping to work full-time until then.

WHEN BLOGS ATTACK NEW BRUNSWICK?!

I'll be going up to New Brunswick this Saturday. I'm going to meet with the landlord of the room I'll be renting. I've already paid the 1.5 month security deposit, so all that's left is to sign the lease and pay the first month's rent, and then I will be an official tenant. Let me tell you about the place I'm renting...

I've got the ground floor-front room of a three-story house, fifteen minutes walking distance from the Library Science building. House has six bedrooms, three baths, a kitchen (Not an eat-in.), and washer/dryer in the basement. Looks like apartment style, since there's no eat-in kitchen nor living room. Hopefully, I won't have to socialize too much with the other tenants. 'H,' the landlord, mentioned that there is at least one other grad student. Whatever.

So it looks like I will be moving to New Jersey come September. Before any of you out there get too wistful (or elated,) I would point out that I have no Friday classes this Fall, and my Thursday class ends at 3:30 pm. Odds are good that once a month or so, I will feel like spending a long weekend in Brooklyn. If Sci-Fi Club or Franco Club are still meeting, I will probably drop by. Bottom line: Everything will have changed, yet maybe nothing will change.

Monday, August 04, 2003

I TELL EVERYONE TO GO WATCH 'BANZAI,' SO NATURALLY...

...Fox changed its time slot. It's a quarter to eight last night and I decide to check the TV periodical, just to find out what episode of The Simpsons would be on. Lo and Behold, but what did I find out? 'Banzai' moved to 7:30, and 'King of the Hill' moved to 'Banzai's' old time slot! So I race to the TV like it's the last big broadcast 'till the end of eternity.

WHAT YOU MISSED IF YOU DID NOT WATCH THE LAST FIFTEEN MINUTES OF 'BANZAI' LAST NIGHT:

-Which fisherman will be the first to lift a squirrel up into the air using a nut tied to a fishing line?

-Which professional car thief will be the first to break into a car and drive off with it? (It was Eminem, not 50 Cent.)

-Which man-horse can hang in the air the longest?

Will Fox change the show's time slot again before next week? Place bets now!

Sunday, August 03, 2003

Time for a weekend post!

Books I’m reading: Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, by Tom Robbins.

Movies I’m watching: “Drugstore Cowboy,” directed by Gus Van Zant. “Infernal Affairs,” (rewatching) directed by Andrew Lau.

“Drugstore Cowboy” is great. It’s about a pack of wastrels who feed their habit by breaking into drugstores. I did not expect to enjoy this movie, because it deals with druggies. I’ve met my share of junkies, and the best compliment I can give them is that their seemingly-bottomless spew of cliches in defense of their life-philosophy only caused me to vomit after 10 minutes. Whatever.

Reasons why “Drugstore Cowboy” is great:

(1) NO GLAMORIZATION OF HEROIN. I think “Trainspotting” is an awesome movie, because the characters start out as great friends, then they die, become jerks, betray each other. Just like real friends do. Hidden beneath all the heroin-paraphernelia is a nugget of spit-shined truth. But the movie is about sexy heroin, and it seems like too many drug movies are focused on the sexy drugs. “Drugstore Cowboy” is about the stuff your local pharmacy carries. There’s never any shady deals with Russian guys in fur coats. Our band of thieves bust into the Duane Reade after it closes, or they raid clinics. The abuse of prescription drugs is no less dangerous, and the police no less unforgiving. But “Drugstore Cowboy” reveals a side of the druggie world that rarely gets explored.

(2) CHANGE EMERGES FROM WITHIN. ***Spoilers ahead!*** Bob, the leader of this motley band of pharmacy-raiding freaks, ultimately gives up the life and checks himself into a methodone clinic. The social worker, impressed by his contrition, asks if he would be interested in counseling other drug abusers. Bob turns her down.

The way Bob sees it, preaching to a druggie is pointless. A druggie is looking to get high so he doesn’t have to deal with the world. No amount of talk can make such a person change. The druggies himself must choose to change. This movie was released in 1989, but more recent drug-related flicks like “Traffic” still convey that message. Am I saying all drug films have ripped off “Drugstore Cowboy?” No, I’m merely observing that, thirteen years later, there still doesn’t seem to be a more practical solution to the “drug problem.”

Bottom line: This movie manages to be anti-drug without skirting over the line into Made-for-TV propaganda. There are references to drug ads and the ridiculousness of them. The main character manages to make the transformation from junkie to decent citizen, and the reason for his change isn’t the fact that he’s played by Tracey Gold. I really liked this movie.

A second review for “Infernal Affairs” will be posted another time. “Banzai” is on tonight at 8:30. Watch it with someone you love!

Friday, August 01, 2003

ALL THE WURST FOR TRYING.

Earlier this month, I posted about a dream I had. In the dream, I was in a terrible sausage-serving fast food eatery called "Hot and Now." Since posting about the dream, certain parties have expressed interest in using "Hot and Now" for an actual sausage-related restaurant.

I don't think that's a good idea. There must be infinitely better names out there for sausage restaurants. Personally, I've come out with a list of ten that I think would be good names. If you come up with some of your own, feel free to share.


TOP TEN NAMES FOR SAUSAGE-SERVING RESTAURANTS:

10. For Better or for Wurst
9. Chip Off the Ol' Brockwurst
8. Kielbasa Nova
7. Always a Wiener!
6. The Missing Link
5. Da Bratwurst
4. Three Weisser Men
3. More Banger for yer Buck
2. Kiss! Kiss! Banger! Banger!
1. The Best of Times, the Wurst of Times

That's my list. The end. Nothing Mortadella.