I WAS TROLLING the various blogs of friends whose opinions I value—even if I don’t always agree with them—but then I got bored and read Angry Rabbit’s (ET) instead. Her latest entry is a combination “Alien: Resurrection” script worship and “Alien: Resurrection” movie review. This has been a continuous point of debate between myself, ET, and other familiars. Mainly because I refuse to concede that Joss Whedon is the Mark Twain of the 21st century, or something like that.

Now, I’ve seen “Alien: Resurrection,” the movie, something like, 15 times. There’s a VHS copy of it at my parents’ house in Miami. I’ve been a huge Jean-Pierre Jeunet fan ever since I saw “The City of Lost Children” seven years ago. I plan to buy all his movies on DVD. I’ve been looking forever for import DVD’s that contain all the award-winning short films and commercials he made subsequent to “Delicatessan,” along with his former collaborator, Mark Caro. Heck, if Jeunet would be willing to take me on as an apprentice for two/three/ten years, I would move to France, work for free, and get by busing tables or selling my ass to sailors. Because it would be an invaluable experience (Apprenticing for Jeunet, not making a man-whore out of myself.) The man is THAT talented.

And yet, “Alien: Resurrection” is easily Jeunet’s worst movie. Having now read Whedon’s script, I can’t say for sure if it is the worst thing Whedon has written, but I would certainly hope so. Amazingly, certain people, like ET, actually LIKE the script. I appreciate it only because it eventually ends. ET, meanwhile, lauds it for different reasons:

“Even though it's a first draft, the script works. I admit that I haven't read a lot of screenplays, but I'm familiar enough with Whedon's work to have an idea of what he's trying to do. All the Whedon trademarks are there: strong females, terrific group dynamics and witty dialogue. The script aims for a feel that's reminiscent of Aliens, and in the hands of a director like James Cameron, could've been another good action entry to the series.”

WHERE DO I BEGIN? Okay, Whedon’s screenplay has one great conceit, and I can only pray that it’s his: Ripley comes back as a human/alien hybrid. That’s a great idea, even if, in my opinion, it makes Ripley into a comic book superhero (capable of Wonder Woman-type monster bashing with her bare hands), rather than anything remotely accessible. Putting that aside, where are the “terrific group dynamics” of this screenplay? The crew of the Betty? This hapless bunch of xenomorph fodder is even more one-dimensional than the hapless bunch of xenomorph fodder that ultimately inhabits the finished film. The only difference is that there’s more of them in Whedon’s script.

St. Just? Rane? One gets eaten, the other one carries guns. Yeah, there’s a real depth here that would make Victor Hugo applaud. I don’t know if it was Jeunet or Whedon who decided to consolidate Christie and St. Just into the same character, but one of them had to go. Otherwise, Christie’s only purpose is to say the exact same lines Elgyn would have said, if he hadn’t been killed already.

Seriously, what are these wonderful group dynamics that Jeunet failed to explore? Four drunks around a table instead of three? Because the rest, as far as I can tell, is still in the movie. So the blame for me finding them totally uninteresting belongs strictly to Whedon.

And furthermore, since I found the central characters uninteresting to begin with, it might have been a good thing that Jeunet, who’s known for casting actors with interesting faces (I believe Fellini also did this), directed this personality-devoid dreck. Lord knows I wouldn’t have remembered them for any other reason! As for witty dialogue, where and how? Get this, folks: The corporation Ripley used to work for, it got bought out… by Wal-Mart! Get it? Because Wal-Mart is an evil corporation bent on taking over the universe! Guffaw, guffaw! Someone should change Whedon’s last name to Wilde. I kept waiting for someone to mention that United Military is now ruled by the immortal Emperor Schwartzeneggar.

See, if Whedon was really trying to be witty, he would have expanded the Wal-Mart/Corporation angle. In fact, Wal-Mart could have been the ones to clone Ripley (They’re expanding into real estate and auto sales, I hear, so wouldn’t genetics be inevitable?) That would have been witty. And then the movie could take place in a giant spaceship that resembles a shopping center. So much better than a single throwaway line!

When ET says that Whedon’s dialogue is witty, perhaps she refers to all the colorful sexual references. “We are fucked up our pink asses!” “Get out your socket wrench. I think Call just needs a change of oil.” Hey, if Joss Whedon wanted his characters to talk like horny mid-20’s Gen X-ers, he should have written them as Gen X-ers in their 20’s, instead of characters in their 30’s and 40’s. Characters that talk their age is the WRITER’S responsibility, NOT the director’s!

And while we’re on the subject of directors, I don’t know who the “perfect” director for Whedon’s “Alien: Resurrection” script would have been. But I suspect that if ET could have chosen him/her, that person would also have been named Joss Whedon. Don’t for a moment think that if James Cameron had signed up to do it, he would have adapted Whedon’s script verbatim. No friggin’ way! Cameron, like Jeunet, is a genuine auteur, NOT a director. Yeah, “Aliens” was full of firefights and explosions. But Cameron wrote the screenplay, and he would be the first to tell you that “Aliens” is not about cool action sequences; it’s about the relationships between mothers and their children. Ellen Ripley gets back the daughter she lost. She journeys into hell and back to rescue her child. In hell, she confronts another mother, the xenomorph queen, who is equally protective of her children. THAT’S why “Aliens” is a great movie. At its heart, it has relationships we can all understand. I’m not sure if Joss Whedon tried to create a similar dynamic between Ripley and Call when he wrote the first draft of his 120-page ammo fest. If he had been trying, that makes the screenplay all the more sad, because the end result is unclear at best, and uninteresting at worst.

In fact, while I was reading the scene where Ripley has to convince Call to crash the starship’s computer, I couldn’t help wondering if Whedon was trying to write a PARODY of those mother/daughter scenes we see in commercials all the time. You know, where they try to sell douche and stuff. Call is the teenage girl who feels ugly and uncomfortable with her body. Ripley uses wry humor and her strong maternal presence to show Call that she’s not alone. I kept expecting her to break out into Lou Reed’s “I’ll Be Your Mirror.” Unfortunately, that would have been too French.

You know, ET claims to be familiar with the work of Jean-Pierre Jeunet, but never remarks on how “Alien: Resurrection” is consistent with the man’s themes and obsessions. “The City of Lost Children” had giant fleas and Siamese twins, and a brain in a water tank. The man does grotesques. And he lights them very well. Likewise, in “Alien: Resurrection,” one can sense how fascinated the director is with the xenomorphs. They are much more expressive in their movements in the film than in the screenplay.

I would guess that Jeunet’s fascination for the villains explains why I found the death of the hybrid so tragic. After all, he just wanted his mom. Then his mom killed him. I think it would also explain why the director changed one of the scenes ET liked so much: The early scene where it looks like the alien is about to attack the scientists, but hits a glass wall instead. No! You leave that out! The aliens are supposed to be lethal killing machines. You never undercut them! You always take them seriously! You make them look like clowns in one scene, and the tone of subsequent movies becomes less and less serious. The next thing you know, you’ve got “Batman and Robin” on your hands.

Instead, Jeunet has Brad Dourif looking through the reverse side of a glass window. Pull back into the darkness, slowly revealing an alien… then another… then another. It’s a great shot.

Now, you may be thinking: Phil, you seem to think Jeunet did a competent job with “Alien: Resurrection.” Does that mean you disagree with ET that “A:R” was a mismatch between writer and director? Not at all. I totally agree that this was a case of the wrong director with the wrong writer. And the perfect solution would have been firing Joss Whedon immediately, and allowing Jeunet to assemble his own script.

Like a wise man once said to me, “You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit.” Auteurs always impart their own vision to a film. The best movies in the “Alien” franchise have always allowed auteurs to strut their respective stuff. I find it interesting that ET never mentions the first “Alien” movie, which was both the best “Alien” movie, and the brainchild of Ridley Scott. Like Jeunet, Ridley Scott is a man whose ability to create bold cinematic visions often saves what are otherwise uninteresting films (“Black Rain” and “Hannibal” are two examples.) Scott conceived of “Alien” as a haunted house movie in space, something that had never been tried before. More importantly, he wanted the visual style to be based on the European heavy metal comics he enjoyed. This was also something that made the 20th Century Fox execs nervous. Most importantly, Scott was intensely involved with every aspect of Dan O’Bannon and Walter Hill’s script, even if he never wrote a single word. Bottom line: “Alien” was not the result of a screenplay typed up in California by one person, and then directed by someone totally disconnected with the writing process. It germinated, evolved, and flourished out of the creativity of a single person: Ridley Scott.

The formula only broke down with “Alien 3.” The goddamned producers started with Renny Harlin (“Die Hard 2”) working with William Gibson. But Gibson’s vision was too expensive, so they commissioned David Twohy (“The Fugitive,” and the upcoming “Chronicles of Riddick”) to write the screenplay. Then Harlin dropped out. Next they approached the awesome Vincent Ward (“Map of the Human Heart,” “What Dreams May Come”) to write and direct. I’ve read Ward’s screenplay, and it would have been spectacular. Think “The Hobbit” in space. But no, that was too elaborate. In desperation, the producers tried to bring Walter Hill back. Hill agreed to write and direct. Then he decided he didn’t want to direct.

What did fans ultimately get? David Fincher directing what was rumored to be a bare-bones story by Hill, but without a screenplay. THIS IS WHY THE “ALIEN” MOVIES SHOULD ALWAYS FEATURE A SINGLE CREATIVE VOICE! This is why after Danny Boyle (“Trainspotting”) dropped out of “A:R,” and Jeunet was hired, they should have paid Whedon off and let the Frenchman do his own writing. The man can do creepy shit. He could have made a wonderful, unique addition to the “Alien” franchise. Or at least a great fantasy film. But he never really got to make HIS “Alien” movie. Instead, he had to make his version of Joss Whedon’s screenplay. In the end, he was an auteur forced to stoop, so low his head was no longer in the clouds where it belonged.

I’M ASHAMED TO ADMIT IT, BUT UP UNTIL LAST NIGHT, I’D ONLY SEEN ONE PEDRO ALMODOVAR MOVIE. And I grew up in Miami, where he’s one of the most popular filmmakers around! Almodovar shot scenes from “Live Flesh,” and “All About My Mother” there. Back in 1999, “All About My Mother” opened the Miami Film Festival, and became a bigger must-see event than “American Beauty.” Art house theatres constantly show his older movies, and there’s always a retrospective when the newest Almodovar gets released.

I did see one of his films: “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.” My high school Spanish teacher thought this would be a great way to immerse us in her language. I don’t know if the movie improved my Spanish any. It certainly didn’t convert me into an Almodovar fan, since I found the movie sort of juvenile. It was a hogdepodge of plotlines involving adultery and jilted females seeking revenge. I think a lot of women had a problem with it, since it depicted them as silly, man-clinging, overly emotional, and prone to excessive mascara.

Since I wasn’t impressed by “Women…,” I never saw another Almodovar flick. This was in spite of splendid reviews for “Kika,” (1992) “High Heels,” (1993) “Live Flesh,” (1997) and “All About My Mother.” (1999) Even after “...Mother” won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Picture, and my Spanish and non-Spanish speaking friends alike were telling me to either go to the theater or rent it, I still didn’t see it. But last night, on a whim, I decided to rent Almodovar’s highly-praised 2002 film “Habla Con Ella.” (“Talk to Her.”) Consider me officially converted.

”Habla Con Ella” won the 2002 Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay. It deserves it. “Habla Con Ella” also took home a statuette for Best Foreign Language Picture. While I’m not convinced that it’s superior to Zhang Yimou’s “Hero,” which was a sweeping, action-film epic, it’s at least on par. “Habla Con Ella” is a more intimate film; it's concerned with two men, Marco and Benigno, and their relationships with women.

Marco, a travel writer, is involved with a female bullfighter named Lydia. Her tough, athletic exterior hides a vulnerable heart which has recently been shattered. Benigno is infatuated with Alicia, an aspiring dancer who now lies in a vegetative state. Benigno is her nurse, and spends many hours talking to her about the operas he’s attended, the dances he’s seen. Who can be sure if Alicia can hear him, but Benigno believes that she can.

An accident brings Marco and Benigno together. As the two spend many a late hour conversing over the comatose Alicia, we find out things regarding Benigno that might strike one as disturbing. For example, he lives in an apartment that overlooks the dance studio Alicia had attended. Before the accident that caused her coma, he used to watch her through the glass windows of the studio. Once, he followed her home.

In a lesser filmmaker’s hands, Benigno would become Ed Gein, or Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s character from “Happiness.” An obsessed psycho. But we never become afraid of Benigno, or suspect that he’d do something terrible. We know he’s a silly romantic dreamer, the equivalent of the awkward high school outsider in love with the head cheerleader. If we cringe at some of the things he does, it’s because they’re risky, and we don’t want him to be caught. We know that Benigno is harmless. But would Alicia, who barely knows him, understand?

Benigno starts giving Marco relationship advice. Even though the pudgy nurse has only dealt with two women his entire life—his mother and Alicia—we suspect that there is wisdom and truth in what he says. But Marco doesn’t take the advice. He no longer feels the same closeness to Lydia. He cannot equal the passion that Benigno has with Alicia, even though Marco and Lydia have shared many more months of intimacy.

Clearly, Benigno has a much more fanciful, unrealistic view of love than Marco. But is that a bad thing? I don’t think Almodovar condemns hopeless, impossible love. I think he sees the beauty in it. At the same time, I think he believes that clinging to an impossible love, instead of accepting that it must end and moving on, ultimately destroys a person. Witness not only Benigno’s tragic fate, but the characters in the James Whale-style black and white “fake movie” in the middle of the film.

In this great-looking and funny “fake movie,” a vain scientist drinks a formula that is supposed to help him lose weight. Instead, it gradually shrinks him. So he leaves his beautiful scientist girlfriend, rather than force her to watch him slowly vanish from the earth. But the girlfriend finds him. She loves him even if he keeps getting smaller.

Even if the scientist girlfriend doesn’t acknowledge that their relationship is impossible to maintain, the shrinking scientist does. So he commits suicide. And for those who’ve seen the movie, yes, I think the suicide scene is one of the weirdest things ever filmed. I agree that it’s borderline pornographic. I can’t see how this movie managed to get an ‘R’ rating. But thank God it did so most videostores can carry it.

In the case of Marco, he had clues that things with Lydia were not going well, even before the accident. He might have pressed her for the truth then, but he didn’t. So Marco ends up humiliated, cast adrift, and possibly cuckolded.

And yet, this is not a depressing movie. It is an absorbing, intricately-written, beautifully photographed, exceptionally well-acted film. Of the three major twists in the second half—one disturbing, one unexpected, and the other seemingly unnecessary—all are handled maturely. Each takes the story in a different direction, but none of these changes feel phony. Maybe this is because the main characters are so well-composed that even if their actions are unexpected, they are understandable. Maybe it’s because Almodovar isn’t as interested in shock value as in the complexities of human relationships.

By the end of the movie, Benigno’s story will be front-page news. Only Marco doesn’t think he is a sick monster. But even if Benigno’s actions are reprehensible, they stem from feelings of genuine love. And the strange thing is, if he had been Alicia’s boyfriend or husband, what he did for her would have been considered as romantic as any Nicholas Sparks novel. But he isn’t. And since the act is so shocking, the public forgets its effect.

At the end of the movie, a minor character wants to talk to Marco about Benigno. Marco says they will talk. “It will not be as complicated as you think,” he says. He might be right. Benigno, to the end, was just a silly romantic. Everything he did, good or bad, he did for love.

I HAD THE STRANGEST DREAM LAST NIGHT, AND IT INVOLVED ME, BETTE MIDLER, AND AN ENSEMBLE OF MISSHAPEN TOILETS.

Apparently, I was in Toronto. Note that I have never visited Toronto, nor have I ever seen photographs or even a postcard of that Canadian city. I sincerely doubt that the actual Toronto looks anything like the city in my dream. The Toronto in my dream was very clean, and had brick sidewalks and fountains.

I wish I could remember the architecture. My recollection of Toronto’s buildings is rather vague, though I recall that they weren’t erected as closely together as the ones in NYC. Also, when I saw them in my dream, I said to myself, “Wow. Those don’t look anything like the buildings in New York City.” Man, I wish I could remember architectural details. Maybe they resembled the strangely-shaped buildings from B&W 20’s sci-fi movies.

So I was really enjoying my first taste of the “Jewel of the East of Canada.” It was sort of a grey day, but all in all, the weather was nice. Then I ran into the street gang. Actually, it started as just a single punk. He kept muttering at me, and tried to pry my tote bag away. After he attempted to put his hands in my pockets, I beat the shit out of him. Please note: I am normally not a confrontational person. But I also don’t like to hand my money over to punks.

It probably helped that the punk was smaller than me (Wow. It really was a dream.) After I dispatched him, I continued on my leisurely stroll. The sky above was grey, but it wasn’t the least bit overcast. Then I heard a noise behind me, turned around, and saw the punk I beat up, plus a bunch of his friends, running after me. So I rolled up my sleeves and ran like hell.

I paid some money and ducked into a darkened theater. It was full of people, which was odd since the only thing on the screen was Chinese commercials. I took a seat in the second row, between an Asian woman who completely ignored me, and a Rastafarian type who smelled like earth. I looked back, saw the punks entering the theater, so I scrunched down into my seat.

Now, I wear glasses to read, but I never carry them around with me since they I’m afraid they could break. But at that moment, punks had made their way down the avenue in between the rows of seats, and I was afraid I’d be spotted. I reached into the inside pocket of my coat. Remarkably, my glasses were there! I put them on.

The punk I beat up was standing in front of the first row, and he was trying to glance around the guy in the seat in front of me, while simultaneously, I was trying to hide behind him. The asshole was about to move on when the man in the first row ducked his head forward. Thanks, man! As the punk spotted me, his mouth stretched into a cruel smile. I smiled back. The punk produced a gleaming switchblade, just as the theater speakers blared with enthusiastic Cantonese and the life before my eyes flashed in blue and pink colors. I sensed that I had stopped smiling.

Luckily, that weird moment of brilliant sight and sound marked the end of the commercials, and everyone stood up simultaneously to leave. I got up, too, and followed the Rastafarian who had been seated to my left. He and a bunch of other people made their way not where we came in, but to a circular staircase at the side of the theater. During the walk over, he produced the biggest doobie I had ever seen, out of his pants pocket. He lit it, took a sufficient hit, and offered me some after he noticed I was staring. I declined; I had actually been trying to stare past him, to see if the punk was following us or the rest of the crowd. I couldn’t see him, so I assumed I had eluded him.

Our group ascended the circular staircase into a smaller room. However, it was also set up like a theater, with long rows of chairs on a declining hierarchy. The windows were open, and there was lots of light and fresh air. I took a seat in the front row, next to a woman who looked familiar, though I couldn’t place her. Before I sat down, I asked, “Mind if I sit here?”

She smiled as if she were very impressed by me, and said, “Hey, why not?”

The room had two doors in the wall in front of us. A woman, who didn’t look very tall (Is everyone in the REAL Toronto shorter than me?), entered through one of the doors. She started to greet everyone in a brassy manner. That was when I recognized her as Bette Midler. But wait! She looked exactly like the woman I had sat down next to! I turned to make sure, and sure enough, I was sitting next to Bette Midler! Then I took a more discriminating look at the woman at the head of the room, and I realized that she wasn’t Bette Midler, only wearing prosthetics on her face to make her LOOK like Bette Midler! This was confusing.

Making things more confusing was the TV screen at the front of the room, which was showing what appeared to be a videotaped revue of sorts. There was another Bette Midler lookalike on stage torch-singing. Or maybe this was the same lookalike that was in the room, and she had been taped. Anyway, while the lookalike on the tape was singing about not being considered attractive because she isn’t tall, thin, and youthful, there was this parade of women on the stage who also weren’t tall, thin, or youthful. Many of them were also in various stages of undress. What the hell was this?

Then someone stopped the tape, and the lookalike began to explain what everything was about. Apparently, Bette Midler has this show. It’s been very popular in the U.S. and Europe, and now they want to bring it to Canada. However, the Canadian government took offense at the partial and total nudity included in the show, so Bette Midler and her writers changed that part, and they wanted to test the clean version in front of all of us, and some Canadian government-types who were also in the room.

So now the lookalike starts torchsinging again. Only now it’s live, not on tape. And through the two doors I mentioned before enter a plethora of women who aren’t tall, or thin, or youthful. Many of them aren’t naked, either. Now they’re all wearing red spandex or lycra tights. It’s like somebody made a musical about Daredevil.

Suddenly the Canadian government-types stand up, and the show stops. They start yelling that the show is still obscene, unacceptable, etc. Bette Midler, the real Bette Midler, gets up from her seat next to me, walks over to where the government-types are sitting, and begins yelling back at them. The railing back and forth gets worse, and increasingly unintelligible the louder they get. At some point, the room must be cleared, but not before Bette Midler gives an obscene gesture involving her crotch with one hand, while shoving the middle finger of her other hand in the government-types’ faces.

Now, before continuing, I want to point out that I have no issues with Bette Midler. I’ve never seen any of her movies, watched any of her interviews, or read any books she may have written. I don’t know if she rails against the establishment in real life. All I know is, the Bette Midler who visited the Toronto in my dream had such a persona. But I’m sure she’s as nice as any other movie star in real life. And if she’s reading this, and decides to do a Broadway revue featuring undressed, non-traditionally beautiful women, I am available to write, and I work cheap.

Back to my dream: So I leave the theater and start walking around again. I see various plazas, peruse the menues of cafes and restaurants (They’re always scribbled on blackboards, in more than one type of chalk, though the mix always includes pink, and I can never make sense of anything except the numerical price.) Though I am in unfamiliar waters, I am genuinely enjoying myself. Then I need to use the bathroom, and I don’t remember where my hotel is. I’m not even sure if I’ve checked into a hotel.

So I find what I think is a public bathroom. And maybe it is, but it’s also a long, wide, green-tinted basement full of strangely shaped toilets and bidets. Some of them had bowls shaped like figure eights. One of them had water that flowed down from a raised apparatus, like a waterfall.

But wait. It gets weirder. I saw what was basically a bed with a hole in the middle. Conceivably, the person who occupied the bed could defecate while lying down. There was also what appeared to be a “group bidet,” basically a shallow pool that had many water jets that fired up at the same time. Most disturbing were those toilets that didn’t flush material down, but instead sprayed them back out in preset directions. This was like the toilet version of David Cronenberg’s gynecological tool scene in “Dead Ringers.”

And some of those toilets were dirty. Penn Station dirty. And with no one else around, I wondered if maybe this was an exhibit or museum of some kind. But I really needed to use the bathroom, and they all seemed to function properly. I found the least unusual toilet, and I thanked God afterward that the material flushed down, not back out.

Leaving the bathroom from the other side of the building, I saw a sign above the door that I couldn’t read. By now, it was getting late, so instead of dwelling on it, I walk around some more until I find my hotel. The hallways have white wallpaper with thin brown and orange vertical stripes. I don’t remember what the number of my room was, but I know I was relieved when I found my luggage waiting inside for me. I am tired. My feet ache. I lie down in bed and try to sleep.

As I try to fall asleep, I still don’t know why I came to Toronto in the first place. Am I a tourist? Am I here for school? But I had a really fun day navigating this strange, new city. Maybe it isn’t worth thinking about so much. At last, I fall asleep, and I wake up in New York City again.

Bette Midler wakes up with me. Yeah, I’m just kidding about that part.

ON THE WAY TO TUESDAY NIGHT GO CLUB, I STOPPED BY DISC-O-RAMA, WHERE I’VE NEVER FOUND A GOOD DEAL, THOUGH PERHAPS I NEVER LOOKED. I found one today, anyway. Anyone out there ever hear of a band called Velocity Girl? They only released two albums; an eponymous one, and “Gilded Stars and Zealous Hearts.” Both came out during the mid-to-late 90’s. Neither was a big hit, but they had videos on “120 Minutes.” Upbeat pop rock. Not sure if either album would be worth paying full price for (probably not), but since Disc-O-Rama was selling “Gilded Stars…” for only $5, I decided, what the hey. I can buy food with the next welfare check.

So I went to what was supposed to be the Go Club meeting place: Bobcat Lounge. Only, in place of Bobcat Lounge, there was a wall. Not a very professional-looking wall, but since I couldn’t knock it down, it clearly served its purpose.

All the metal tables and chairs which used to be in Bobcat Lounge were left in a small cavity beside the empty information booth. I thought to myself, optimistically, “Hey, maybe people can still hang out in this tiny cavity. Let me overturn one of these tables, slide up a chair, and pretend like everything’s normal.” And I did. About five minutes go by, and someone appears in the info booth behind the glass. I didn’t look up from what I was doing. However, I could HEAR them.

“Yeah. Yeah. (Laughs.) Damn. Are you sure? (Laughs.) HEY! HEY!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT TABLE?!!!”

I choose to ignore them. After all, I’m trying to read the want ads here.

“HELLO?! You can’t be sittin’ in here!”

Now, the funny thing is, the door to the information booth is on the inside of the library, while this dinky little room is on the outside. So for a while, I just sit there, seemingly absorbed in thought, ignoring this screaming library helper. Was she really going to take the long walk around the check-out desk to deal with me?

“NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO SIT IN HERE! YOU HEAR ME?!”

By now, this had gotten irritating, and I couldn’t read the want ads with this library worker yelling at me. So I looked up from my paper, and I put on my best “genuinely surprised” face when I saw her.

“Hi!”

“SIR, YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO MOVE THE TABLES AND CHAIRS STACKED UP AGAINST THE WALL OVER THERE.”

I glanced over at the stacked metal tables and chairs and reacted like it was the first time I’d noticed them. Then—and I’m probably going to Hell for it—I looked the library worker square in the eyes and told her, “This table and chair were like this when I got here.” Hey, prove that they weren’t!

So I found out from her that the Bobcat Lounge is being converted into office space. Hence the wall. Another lounge may be built someday, but not anytime soon. However, for only $25, I can get a whopping 6 visits to the library over the next year. What a bargain! I’ve only paid them exorbitant tuition for several years in the past! Remember the NYU motto, kids: “We’ve never met a stone we couldn’t squeeze blood out of.”


GO! STOP! GO!

I played a game of Go against someone who was way better than me. I admit it, I was in over my head. My opponent was clearly irritated that I was a novice, and thus, not much of a challenge. Hey pal, next time we’ll compete in something I have a clear advantage in, like making self-deprecating remarks!

In spite of getting trounced, I was my usual diplomatic self. I even put forth a decent rejoinder, after my opponent drew attention to my flawed strategy of “building a wall, but having nothing behind it.” (Hey! I’m from NYU! We're all about building walls! Haven't you heard?) My reply was, “I’ve heard many of the same things said about North Korea.”

This got a laugh from the table. However, while on the train home I realized what I SHOULD have said was, “So, what you’re saying is I’ve built North Korea?” Because then, I could followed that up with,

“You may have won this game, pal, but my side’s still got the nukes!”

That would have been perfect. And I could have followed THAT up with,

“Someday this wall will come down, and all the stones on the board will be the same color. Whatever color my side wants!” Too political? Maybe.

Am I the only one who does this? You know, obsess over witty things I should have said, but didn’t? I remember a certain episode of Sci-Fi club a year ago. The whole gang is sitting around the old room on the third floor. I overhear Erin, N., and Rick discussing either Star Wars or straws. Someone says “Straw Wars!” I turn around and say, “I believe that was the Sam Peckinpah version of the movie!” Get it? “Straw Dogs!” It was a Peckinpah film!

Anyway, big laugh. But had I been working harder, I would have followed that up with, “But most critics agree that the sequel, ‘Bring Me the Head of Luke Skywalker,’ was the better film!” Ah, wasted opportunity.

Still, I wish SOMEONE with a sense of humor had been at that family dinner a few months back, when I was talking to that cute step-cousin who eventually asked me to a Christian rock concert. See, we’re talking, and my uncle walks over and asks my step-cousin what she’s studying in college. My step-cousin replies that she’s studying Accounting. My uncle is impressed, as the endeavor of studying any dry academic subject always impresses him. So he asks my cuz how she enjoys it.

My step-cousin sort of shrugs, gives an unenthusiastic, “Ehh. It’s okay.” Now, I think Accounting is a very rigorous curriculum, and I think she deserves positive reinforcement and encouragement. So I say, “Good for you, S____! Who says there’s no accounting for good taste?!”

The woman of my dreams would have laughed at that bit of dry wit. At the very least, she wouldn’t have thrown wine in my face. Okay, that last part didn’t happen. S____ didn’t throw wine in my face. But she didn’t laugh, either.

It’s Spring in New York again. A time for romance, for getting together with your significant, or non-significant other, to watch a great romantic movie. If you happen to be in the video store tonight, and you’re in the mood for a great romance, and if the newly-released 25th anniversary edition of “Caligula” happens to be rented out, you may want to pick up Clint Eastwood’s 1971 film “Play Misty for Me.” It features Eastwood and Jessica Walters in one of the most romantic screen pairings I’ve ever seen.

Eastwood plays David, a popular San Francisco disc jockey. He loves the jazz music, and occasionally recites poetry on the air. David takes requests, and every night, at fifteen before the hour, the same woman always calls in. “Play Misty for me,” is her regular request. So every night, David puts on “Misty,” a song about lonely people, and dedicates it to the mysterious “Evelyn.”

Then one night, the disc jockey visits his regular watering hole. He spots an attractive woman who, the bartender informs him, is “waiting for someone.” David decides to help himself to her anyway. The woman seems sweet, and sophisticated. Her date never shows up, so David goes home with her instead. Not until they are back at her place does she confess that there was no date to begin with. You see, she is “Evelyn,” the woman who calls the radio station every night to request “Misty.” Apparently, David has mentioned his favorite watering hole on the air, and she decided to hang around there after the show in hopes he’d stop by.

David and Evelyn decide to share a night of unbridled passion. After all, it is the 70’s, so we have the pill, but no AIDS yet. Before they fornicate, however, David tells her that it has to be a one night stand. “I’m not looking to complicate my life,” he says. “Don’t worry. No strings attached,” Evelyn assures him.

Oh, but there are strings! Evelyn shows up at David’s pad the next day. This disturbs him slightly, since their affair was supposed to have been a one night stand. Also, he didn’t tell her where he lived. Of course, since she has a bunch of steaks in tow, David lets her stay, and they even have sex again. The next morning, however, he tries to brush her off with a subtle, “Please don’t show up like this again. I’ll call you.”

Now, at this point, which is about the 20-to-30 minute mark, I thought I knew where this movie was going. David would keep trying to avoid Evelyn, and she would persist, until of course, he realizes that she’s the perfect woman. Classic screwball comedy. Just like “Bringing Up Baby.” I mean, what’s not to love about Evelyn? Granted, the actress playing her is kinda WASPy, so she’s not exactly my type (Despite what you hear about us libidinous black men.) But come on, Eastwood! Evelyn does so many cute things. She smothers David with attention at all hours of the day. She gives him expensive gifts. She follows him around to make sure he’s not seeing other women. And when she thinks he might be seeing another woman, she bangs on his door at 3 in the morning, hoping to catch that unwanted trollop in his bed.

There’s also the kinky things she does, like show up naked on his doorstep after he initially “breaks up” with her. Oh, and this is not so kinky, but it’s still great: David gets all dressed up for a “business date.” The manager of a major San Fran radio station is interested in hiring him. Then Evelyn shows up unexpectedly, discovers that the manager is a woman, and in classic Lucille Ball fashion, screams and rants and curses at both of them until David has to drag her away. This leads to one of the cutest shots of Evelyn in the film: David stuffs her into a cab while she continues denigrating his manhood. As he hands the cabbie money, she suddenly changes her attitude. Leaning out of the backseat window of the cab, she desperately scratches the air, and says, “David! Please don’t leave me! Please, David! I love you! I love you!” It’s all caught in close-up. So cute.

Now, don’t think Eastwood spends the entire movie trying to resist Evelyn’s considerable affections. In an ill-conceived subplot, David runs into an ex-girlfriend, an artist played by Donna Mills. David seems to prefer her to Evelyn, though I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s because Mills’ character is younger, blander, and not quite as strong-willed as her rival. Maybe it’s because, unlike Evelyn, she doesn’t trash David’s house after suspecting, once again, that he’s been unfaithful. Or maybe it’s because Donna Mills is blonde. I don’t know. I just kept waiting for David to realize that Evelyn is his true love and to ditch her.

Oh, and about that house-trashing scene. One thing I must say about “Play Misty for Me:” It’s technically well-made, with the kind of cinematic adventurousness one finds in the films of such 60’s/70’s mavericks as Antonioni. For example, the scene where David’s black housekeeper finds Evelyn slashing his things up with a knife is done in rickety, hand-held camera. The rest of the movie also features some long zoom shots, which draw attention to items and characters in the background. Those reminded me of the films of Altman.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Here I am describing “Play Misty for Me” as a great romantic movie. But it features knives? Surely, knives aren’t romantic, are they? Of course they are. Some of human history’s greatest romantic works feature knives and the use of knives. Like Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. More importantly, Evelyn slashed up David’s stuff because she thought he was being unfaithful. And he was. Although, honestly, I think he would have inevitably come back to her, if only she hadn’t lost it.

Unfortunately, unrestrained human impulses often turn romance into tragedy. Just the tiniest miscalculation or mistake can have horrible repercussions. Like in Romeo and Juliet, Romeo drinks poison and dies, because he thinks Juliet is dead. But Juliet was never dead. She had been sleeping, and wakes up in time to discover Romeo dead. So Juliet takes up her knife, then slashes up Romeo’s stuff and tries to kill the black housekeeper. It’s a real bloodbath. But it’s so romantic. Of course, it might never have gotten so far if Juliet had trusted Romeo when he told her he had a “business date” he had to get to.