CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

(SOUNDS AWFULLY SERIOUS, DON’T IT?)

I think it’s appalling the way the lawyer for Dawnette Knight—the woman accused of terrorizing Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones for over a year—has been behaving. Two days ago, his client retired to her jail cell, then attempted to kill herself by overdosing on sleeping pills. Now her lawyer, Richard Herman, has stated that, "…Catherine Zeta-Jones has driven Dawnette Knight to attempt suicide—and the real blood is on her hands."

Most likely, Richard Herman is playing the old "blame the victim" game. Could Zeta-Jones be the actual aggressor here, and Knight the victimized party? Stop snickering for a moment, and look at this case again through the other side of the proverbial glass:

CONSIDER: Catherine Zeta-Jones must get thousands of positive letters from adoring fans every day. By simply playing the percentages, we can predict that she must also get a few hundred pieces of hate mail every day. It’s certainly conceivable that more than one person resents Catherine Zeta-Jones enough to write her a hateful letter. How can Zeta-Jones, or Michael Douglas, or anybody, be certain that the letters Dawnette Knight has been accused of writing weren’t written by a different hater?

WHAT IF… Dawnette Knight did write a letter to either Michael Douglas or Catherine Zeta-Jones? What if the contents of that letter were actually benign, but somehow misconstrued as masking maliciousness? (After all, calling someone a "whore gold digger" might be a way of giving praise.) Douglas or Zeta-Jones freak out, have Dawnette Knight arrested, and in their haste, they WRONGFULLY ASSUME that she must be responsible for EVERY poisonous word that has been directed at them in the last year—including those negative reviews of "Intolerable Cruelty." Then they sully her good name in court. My God, can you blame her for wanting to die?

Riiiiight. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in contemptuously snorting at Richard Herman’s desperate defense strategy. As I said earlier, I find his recent game plan simply appalling. I mean, I’m sure we can all agree that he just isn’t being crazy enough. That’s right, like I used to say about Mars bars, "it could be nuttier." If I were Dawnette Knight, I would grab him by the lapel and scream,

"There’s two minutes left in the 4th quarter, man! We’re down six points. It’s time for you to bring the crazy!"

HOW I WOULD DO IT: Put Zeta-Jones back on the stand, and hammer away.

Me: Ms. Zeta-Jones, aren’t you a very good actress?

CZJ (Fluttering her lashes): Why, yes I am.

Me: Good enough to win an Oscar in 2003?

CZJ: Yes.

Me: Good enough to take the stand and convince us that you’re the victim, when in reality, YOU WROTE THOSE LETTERS AND MAILED THEM TO YOURSELF?!!!

CZJ: What? No!—I mean, yes! I mean—

Me: What’s the answer, Ms. Zeta-Jones? IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME!!!

CZJ (Flailing madly.): I’LL SLICE YOU UP LIKE MEAT ON A BONE!!! I’LL SLASH YOUR THROAT LIKE NICOLE SIMPSON!!!

Me: Whoa! Even I didn’t see that happening!

But we all know it won’t happen like that. More likely, there will actually be "justice" meted out, the "guilty" will be "punished," etc. However, even if Dawnette Knight goes to jail, the psychological scars can never fully be healed.

Many actors keep the public at arm’s length because of obsessed whackjobs like Dawnette Knight. But unlike the Marlon Brandos of their profession, the Douglas family has always seemed personable. Will that change? Has it already changed? The next time Michael Douglas or Catherine Zeta-Jones are in a shopping mall or supermarket, and an excited fan walks up, will either one retain the old off-the-cuff approachability, or will they erect an invisible barrier, wondering in their heads, "How dangerous is this stranger standing in front of me?"

Even more important, will I ever fully recover from the psychological scars of paying to see "Intolerable Cruelty," which was very disappointing? No, probably not. Not even if Dawnette Knight spends the rest of her life behind bars. For the remainder of my days, there will always be a part of me missing--about 100 minutes, plus fifteen for the previews. May God have mercy on your soul, Dawnette Knight.

THE CLOCK DISPLAY ON MY RADIO DIES; DID ODIN KILL IT?

Just a few minutes ago, as I finished writing my "Spider-Man 2" review, I got up to check the time on my radio—and discovered the crystalline monitor totally blank!

It took me a minute to realize that it wasn’t right. As long as there’s power going to the box, the time should be on that monitor. And the radio was playing, so electricity had to be finding its way in. Unless… my beloved Sony was finally on its last leg.

I got that radio as a Christmas present back when I was a freshman. In high school. It would have been eleven years old come December, which would be about 77 in dog years. My Sony was a very good radio that lasted longer than it should have. The CD player stopped working six months ago, and now that the monitor is kaput—I guess I should finally buy a new one.

Anyone in need of a radio/CD player with a non-working CD player and non-functioning crystalline monitor?

Oh yeah, so I had started lamenting over the radio that I shall soon have to discard, when the phone rang. It was someone from Nautica, and they wanted to know whether I had ever met Odin.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Have you ever met Odin?" the person asked again.

"You mean, like, the Lord of Asgard? That Odin?"

Laughter from the other side of the phone line. "Nooooo. Odin in charge of the mailroom. A____
(My boss) passed your resume on to him, and he wants to interview you Monday about a spot that’s opened up."

I’ve never met Odin, but I’m going to interview for the mailroom gig Monday. An interview with Odin. Hey, it pays .50 more per hour than my current position. Of course, the boss does tend to hurl lightning bolts at you if he sees you slacking.

COMMENTS ON "SPIDER-MAN 2," AND OTHER POINTS OF INTEREST:

Today was quite the full day for me. My boss’ shipment of 2005 clothes is a week late, so there isn’t anything for me to do around the office at Nautica. As a result, I got the day off. I didn’t get paid for it, unfortunately, and I also had to turn on the AC at home because it was hot.

However, having the AC on made my room comfortable enough for speech-writing. Have I mentioned my internship for a burgeoning non-profit organization yet? Normally, I write press releases, or I research on-line and write lengthy reports. But last week my boss mentioned a keynote speech she has to deliver at a large charity concert August the 16th. She asked me if I was interested in whiffing out a few drafts. Since my Nautica job doesn’t offer any kind of mental challenge (though it sometimes gives me eyestrain), and I can already play up the agenda of our little organization, I agreed to step up to the plate.

My first two drafts of the speech, composed over the last two nights, were laughably bad. But this morning, I pounced on the keys first thing, and, I don’t know… everything just seemed to click together. I can’t say whether my boss will love this third draft, but I think it’s got potential. In fact, I like it so much, I have no doubt that my boss will immediately toss it aside and ask me to come up with something new.

After e-mailing her the speech, I decided to reward myself by going to a movie. I hadn’t seen "Spider-Man 2" yet, and since it was only 11 a.m. on a weekday, I got into the bargain matinee. Now, normally I would post a full review on the movie, but unless you’ve been avoiding all television, radio, or print ads for the last month, you know that critics love it, and you know that audiences love it. For me, the only issue was: Does the movie live up to its hype?

My God, does it ever. I would be shocked to see another movie this summer that is as thoroughly entertaining as "Spider-Man 2." It is alternately funny and moving, and it absolutely nails the comic book character—the first four-color superhuman who is as human as he is super.

The plot rehashes one of the great comic book storylines: Peter Parker decides to give up being Spider-Man. Working two menial jobs and trying not to flunk out of Columbia is tough enough for any teenager. But Peter Parker is also Spider-Man, and fighting crime is really starting to wear him down. Coupled by the dangers inherent in drawing longtime crush M.J. into his crimefighting web, and the fact that his powers occasionally stop working, Peter is sorely tempted to turn in his red-and-blue tights.

There’s a few villains thrown into the mix, too. But the heart of the film is Peter’s journey to find himself—is he a man, or Spider-Man? The same question was put to Kal-El in "Superman II," but that doesn’t blunt "Spider-Man 2’s" effectiveness. After all, the quest for identity is universal.

Now, before you accuse me of simply echoing the prevaling critics’ opinion, let me say that I liked the first "Spider-Man" movie, and many critics did not. Yes, I thought some aspects of that screenplay were either wrong (Peter Parker beating up the bullies) or cliched (Could there have been a less-contrived premise for M.J. lip-locking Spidey than his saving her from muggers…?). And of course, there was the ending (Anyone else have trouble buying that M.J. was now in love with Peter?).

A new screenwriter (Alvin Sargent) was brought in for the sequel, and he gives it a thoroughly serious tone. Sure, there are contrivances, like the fact that Aunt May, Peter, and one of the key villains happen to be in the same place at the same time. And there’s that non-existent subplot involving The Daily Bugle. It’s supposed to be this extremely influential newspaper, and J. Jonah Jameson brags about turning the public against Spider-Man with his daily front page headlines decrying him as a menace. If that’s the case, why doesn’t Spidey ever catch any flak when he’s swinging around in public? My guess: Those bits were left on the cutting room floor.

And there is that odd bit involving an Asian violin player and a certain Saturday morning cartoon theme song. But at the same time, there’s no cheesy rasslin’ stuff, or high school brawls cross-bred with "The Matrix," which is a definite improvement.

What does return is the tension between our erstwhile protagonists, who are still pining for each other. Somehow, it works this time. I actually sensed something complimentary about their personalities that wasn’t there before. For example, M.J. has these two moments: the first, when she’s sitting on the front stoop of her old house, waiting for Peter; and the second, when she’s walking home from her Broadway debut of "The Importance of Being Earnest." Both times, she has this aloof thing going on. You sense that she’s as much of an introverted, lone wolf-type as Parker.

I expected this movie to blindside me with action and special effects, and possibly some weird first-person perspective tracking shots, courtesy of Sam Raimi. "Spider-Man 2" delivers on all that, and as a bonus, gives us characters we care about, including a surprisingly sympathetic villain in Alfred Molina’s Doc Ock. I admit to not knowing much about how Doc Ock’s robotic tentacles work in the comics. But in the movie, once an inhibitor chip is destroyed, they take over his mind for long stretches.

I found it interesting that when the machines are controlling Ock’s brain, he’s all sinister sneers and droll one-liners ("You’ve got a train to catch," being my favorite). In other words, he behaves and talks the way villains in most other summer blockbusters behave and talk. Which isn’t much of a surprise, I guess. With few exceptions, most of those flicks are so blandly impersonal, and populated by characters so lacking in remotely human traits, that they could’ve been churned out by robots.

KEEP HAMMERING AWAY, AND YOU’LL EVENTUALLY SUCCEED. That appears to be the message of “The Odd One Dies,” a 1997 flick by Hong Kong director Johnnie To (aka “Patrick Yau”).

Aside from that uplifting moral, this movie has some really good things going for it: A dark sense of humor, camera moves and shaggy-dog characters reminiscent of Wong Kar-Wai. By the second half, however, “The Odd One Dies” degenerates into a routine romantic drama, wherein it’s clear to everyone except the two central protagonists that they’re perfect for each other.

The main character, a hapless loser, is played by Takeshi Kaneshiro. He played a cop who falls for Bridgette Lin in Kar-Wai’s “Chungking Express,” and a loner with a penchant for breaking into other people’s businesses in “Fallen Angels.” In “The Odd One Dies,” he’s a loner again, floating around the same kind of gritty Hong Kong underworld as in “Fallen Angels.” Given the choice of mise-en-scene--antiseptic neon light saturates everything--and the Godardian disjointed editing, it’s easy to imagine this movie as continuing the story of Kaneshiro’s “…Angels” character. There’s even a hint that Johnnie To embraced comparisons to Kar-Wai, since “The Odd One Dies” has a musical refrain that--surprise!--was also a refrain in “The Days of Being Wild.”

Anyway, the loser gets a hit man assignment from some mob guys. The assignment is dangerous, the odds that he’ll get killed not exactly in his favor. So he takes the money down to the local casino to play blackjack until he either loses it all or beats the house. For the first half-dozen hands, he loses, which doesn’t seem like a surprise since the man ALWAYS loses. But Kaneshiro won’t give up, even when the dealer takes pity on him and advises him to stop playing. He keeps going at it, throwing down increasingly larger wads of cash… and then his luck changes.

The former loser wins a hand. Then he wins another, and another, and another, until he’s made back all the money he’s lost, as well as a huge pile of the house’s money. And the guy can’t believe it. Of course, now that he’s hit the jackpot, he decides that risking his neck on a suicidal hit doesn’t sound like a good idea anymore. So he hires another hit man to take his place. The hit man, however, turns out to be a mysterious woman, not to mention a professional assassin.

Now, that sounds like a potentially good premise, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, the mysterious woman/professional assassin is soon revealed to be something far more ordinary. The same can be said for the screenplay. “The Odd One Dies” features a love story that has been done better in a hundred other movies, although there is a dual makeover scene that Ernest Lubistch should be kicking himself for not putting into “The Shop Around the Corner.”

Some people might like this movie. I don’t really recommend it, though. But I admit, it’s impossible for me to fully disapprove of a flick that hinges an important plot point around cannibalism. I’m serious.

The loser is auditioning for the coveted hit man job, and the mob guys all seem to think he’d be a good fit, except this one head goodfella who refuses to accept him. Enraged, Kaneshiro grabs a knife, and in a sequence that’s actually quite comedic, cuts off all the fingers on the head mobster’s hand (My analysis: It’s funny because To wisely pans backward when the mobster’s fingers go flying into the air, literally distancing the audience from the violence.)

In the chaos that ensues, the mobsters throw the finger-severing loser to the ground, while hustling about to find their boss’ severed fingers. And they’re trying to find ice for the fingers, too, but since they’re meeting in a secret drug den, the refrigerators are full of crack, and there’s not a single cube of ice anywhere. They manage to gather one, two, three, four of the severed fingers, but the fifth is still missing. One of the senior mob guys has a light bulb go off over his head, and he slowly turns to Kaneshiro, who appears to be holding something in his mouth, and is threatening to swallow it.

That’s how he gets the job. I guess that’s the other moral of the movie: Make bold moves, because they may pay off. So, the next time you want a raise at work, march into your boss’ office, slice off all the fingers on his hand, then threaten to eat one of them unless he ponies up the dough. Or work harder. I guess you can try that, too.

I THINK PEOPLE TEND TO HAVE SHORT MEMORIES. I was on the B-train this morning, heading into Manhattan. The time was about 8:15 a.m. This took place during the morning rush hour, so the car was full. I was standing right behind one of those metal vertical poles, underneath the little speaker that occasionally emits a piercing hum that sounds like a mosquito behind a megaphone. Did I mention the car was crowded?

So I was standing there reading the morning paper, when suddenly, a pale, chubby, liver-spotted hand darted over my shoulder to grab the pole. I turned around out of reflex. The hand belonged to an old, yellowish-white haired, heavy-set Russian woman. Or possibly German. At any rate, she was trapped in what I consider the rush hour quicksand pit of every subway car, sandwiched on all four sides by the backs of riders who, unlike her, have something they can hold onto.

The lady was flouncing around pretty desperately. It occured to me that I could either: (A) Ignore her, since she was old and would die soon anyway, or (B) Scoot aside just a little bit so she could get a firmer grip on the metal pole and save her own life. I chose (B.) I gave a few inches, and the old woman scuttled over, smiled and thanked me, then nearly hugged the pole out of appreciation for its being there.

Now, I was feeling pretty good about myself for having performed this altruistic deed. As I continued reading my paper, the train made a few more stops, and the rush hour proceeded as it usually does.

But somewhere around Atlantic Avenue, this old Chinese woman got on board. And she gets stuck in that same rush hour quicksand trap that the Russian or German lady got caught in. By now, a sliver of open space was available between myself and the formerly quicksand-bound frau. But since there were other dudes standing around the space, the old Chinese woman couldn’t get to it. It was clear that if the frau would only move aside a few inches--just as I did--then the old Chinese woman could take her place. Then everyone would have a handhold, and everything would be okay.

However, the old cow did everything in her power not to perform such a kind and simple gesture. And this wasn’t a case of her not seeing the old Chinese woman. At one point, old Chinese woman extended one of her sinewy talons over Frau Heffer's shoulder to try and grab the pole. Comrade Bovine actually slapped the talon away with her chunky shoulder, a gesture that probably resembled smashing a fly with the swinging door of a car--that is, a swinging door composed entirely of custard and pig fat, and with enough sagging skin to resemble the recent sales figures of Hustler magazine.

Luckily, before someone got hurt, the train stopped at Dekalb, someone got off, and old Chinese woman found somewhere to stand and not get flung about like a pinball. As the trains started up again, I turned to Frau Heffer and said,

“You know, you could have just moved over to that empty space. (Indicating with hand.)”

She turned her face up to me--a face which God clearly intended for grazing--and snapped back: “Why should I move?! She should move!”

I briefly tried to explain how old Chinese woman wouldn’t have been able to leapfrog the gal who was standing between her and the space. But the intractable old cow would have none of it.
“She can stand there! (Indicating empty spot.) She can stand over there! (Indicating spot at other side of car.) Why should I have to move?!”

I don’t know why her attitude was bothering me. I mean, of course “Pay it forward” isn’t set in stone. There is no rule, except possibly in the annals of social etiquette, that says, ‘If someone shows you a kindness, you should do a similar kindness--within reason--for somebody else.” But I guess I just assumed that, since I sauntered myself over a little to make her subway commute easier, she would do the same for another. Naïve, I know. Or maybe I just didn’t like her bitchy attitude.

“Uh, excuse me,” I said. “But aren’t you the same swollen cow I generously slid over for just a few minutes ago? Didn’t I give a little ground so you didn’t have to flail all over the subway car?”
And Mercedes Butt responded, “Right. So YOU move!!!”

Thank God I don’t carry concealed weapons with me when I go to work. I would have been severely tempted to make hamburger out of that 280 pounds of USDA Choice crap. Instead, I just shrugged, smiled, and said, “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“No! Whatever YOU say!” the overstuffed brockwurst replied. She added, “See? I can argue, too!”

I don’t think countering every argument I make by repeating my exact words back to me counts as a legitimate arguing style, except maybe on the playground in 3rd grade. Still, while I was starting to simmer, I knew that she wasn’t worth getting ugly over. The old cow got off at the next stop. I assume she spent the rest of her day bragging to her fellow workers, at that place where they put puppies to death, about how she outfoxed a rude young man on the B train. Ah, well. F*ck the overflowing bag of crap.

There’s a point to the story I just told, but I don’t remember it anymore. Something about how people tend to have short memories, how we tend to forget the kindnesses other people show us. Maybe it’s because we don’t like to admit, even to ourselves, that we actually needed assistance. Yeah, I include myself in that list of perpetual ingrates. I remember plenty of times when I could have brought chocolates, cookies, or other wonderful goodies to my friends’ places. I mean, they did provide me with a free meal more times than I can remember. Eh, screw ‘em. They can get their own goodies! Why should I have to share goodies with them?!

Moo.

SO, I TURN ON WLIB THIS MORNING, AND APPARENTLY, ARNOLD SCHWARZENNEGAR, THE “GOVERNATOR” HIMSELF, REFERRED TO THE LIBERAL LAWMAKERS OF CALIFORNIA AS “GIRLIE MEN.”

Schwarzennegar, as many of you probably know, ran for governor on a Republican ticket, and is widely considered a rising star in the GOP (traditional conservatives.)

As a liberal, I am offended by the Schwarz’ comment. Offended right down to the tips of my little red slippers. Liberal = Girlie Man? Like hell! There have been plenty of tough guy liberals who’ve pulled up their proverbial tents, and dared to ride West towards the frontier of our country’s vast political landscape.

Apparently, the Schwarz has never heard of a Mr. Al Franken. Former writer of a little show called “Saturday Night Live.” Wrote a little something called Bill O’Reilly is a Lying Liar…, a very insightful book that I plan to read someday. Al Franken is also famous for hosting a drive time radio show on “Air America,” WLIB. Finally, he had the cojones to challenge a certain tough-talking conservative commentator--who called all liberals “sissies,” in print--to a street fight.

I don’t remember who that tough-talking conservative commentator was. It could have been that Tucker Carlson guy, I’m not 100% sure. But the point is, that Carlson guy pussied out of the fight, proving once and for all that while conservatives have the guts to hurl insults from behind the safety of a typewriter, they shit themselves when faced with a 50-year old man with a bad back.

Al Franken's challenge was an act of real swaggering bravery. It would have made John Wayne proud. I mean, we all know how closely tied the GOP is with the NRA. There was every chance that, come high noon, Tucker Carlson would have showed up with a couple AK-47’s and Charlton Heston. But as Adlai Stevenson once said, the other fella blinked first, and now liberals everywhere, including myself, have found our balls. Not to mention the strength to challenge conservative bullies, wherever and whenever they rear their immaculately groomed eyebrows.

And so, not likely to take the Governator’s insult to liberals everywhere lying down, and inspired by Mr. Al Franken’s shining example, I officially challenge the Governator to a fight. With Al Franken.

Okay, how about John Kerry? Martin Sheen?
* * *

This morning’s Daily News reports that the city of New York has paid out at least $500,000 to victims of the Puerto Rican Day gang attacks of 2000. The biggest single payout, $150,000, went to an 18-year old British woman who was stripped, and repeatedly violated, by horrible Puerto Rican bastards for more than 30 minutes.

Over $500,000 paid out to 21 female victims. According to my calculator, that comes out to about $23,809 per grope. Now, I will grant you, I’ve probably paid more for less. But let’s not overlook what’s important here: Where did the city get its $500,000 to pay these victims? Where will it get the additional funds needed to settle lawsuits stemming from the Puerto Rican Day attacks that are still in litigation?

I don’t know if the city of New York has a fund set aside for incidental lawsuits that pop up every year. I would hope they do, however, because otherwise, the money will probably have to come from honest tax-payers like you and me.

What an injustice that would be! This isn’t some gaudy strip bar; I’m not picking up the tab for some other asshole’s grope. The violence occurred at the Puerto Rican Day parade. It was perpetrated by Puerto Ricans (As video footage showed.) So Puerto Ricans should pay! If I throw a house party, and a guest goes into the kitchen, slips on some melted ice, and then gets groped by some dirty Puerto Rican bastards, aren’t I liable?

But even if the Puerto Rican community is forced to pay the $500,000 in damages stemming from their people’s rampage, here’s the problem: The Puerto Rican population of New York isn’t exactly known for being affluent. If every Puerto Rican were forced to contribute to a special “grope tax,” levied solely on Puerto Ricans, they would have less money to buy alcohol, cigarettes, and wife-beater T-shirts, and those industries might suffer significant, albeit short-term, losses.

And what about the vendors who sell most of these items in Bronx neighborhoods where Puerto Ricans are concentrated? Most of these bodegas are owned by Arabs, Koreans, and Dominicans--not Puerto Ricans. If Puerto Ricans, strapped from having to pay the “grope tax,” don’t have the money to buy their usual goods from the bodegas, these little ma-and-pa stores could go out of business. It’s not right that non-Puerto Ricans have to suffer because of the sick behavior of a bastard few Puerto Ricans.

Now, I spent all day racking my brain, trying to come up with a better solution. But it wasn’t until I read the names of the victims who settled their lawsuits that I realized: None of them have Puerto Rican-sounding names! And that’s how I came up with what I consider a brilliant solution. And a very fair solution, if I may say so myself.

Since Puerto Ricans got a day where they could rampage, recklessly destroy property, and grope and sexually abuse non-Puerto Rican women, the rest of us--non-Puerto Ricans--should get a day of payback. To wit, on this particular day, WE get to trash Puerto Rican businesses, and molest Puerto Rican women all we want. Now, personally, I’ve only met a few Puerto Rican women, and under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t leap at the chance to grope any of them. But I will admit that, if there weren’t any threat of arrest, or worse, confusion that I was looking for a personal relationship, then I would probably grope away happily. While it wouldn’t match the thrill of feeling up European-tourist women, who are more educated and cultured--like touching God in a special place--it beats nothing.

But will we get to wear those wife-beater T-shirts? I hope so.
* * *

Alright. One more sorry attempt at humor, and I’m done for today.

Dick Cheney seems to be everywhere lately, lauding the Bush administration’s accomplishments, sticking it to Kerry and Edwards. He’s being hailed as the, “secret weapon with the base” by senior members of the administration.

Now, I don’t want to tell Bush and his people how to do their jobs, but after the fiasco that is Iraq, shouldn’t hyping secret weapons be the last thing they want to do?*
 
 
(*Truth be told, it was a senior SPOKESMAN for Bush-Cheney who made the “secret weapon” comment. I don’t think that’s the same as a senior administration member, but wouldn’t that have been funny?)

I WANT TO WRITE ABOUT LAST THURSDAY EVENING, AS THE DETAILS ARE STILL SOMEWHAT FRESH IN MY MIND. Last Thursday evening was downright surreal, and it began when I arrived an hour-and-a-half early to Sam and thecomicman’s place in Queens. See, my e-mail gets firewalled at Nautica, so I didn’t get the group message warning me not to show up before 7:45. I expected people to be home at 7, so arriving at 6:00/6:15 didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Since no one was home, I sat down on the front stoop and proceeded to do what people sitting down on the stoop usually do. Basically, I gazed out into space. I vaguely recall phantom children on bicycles whizzing by; the occasional fat blob of a car zooming left to right. It’s too bad I wasn’t paying closer attention. Had I been, I might have noticed the home invasion and robbery that occurred right across the street.

Apparently, around 6:30 pm, a couple guys entered the basement apartment right across from Sam and thecomicman’s abode. They stabbed a guy who lived there in the hand, made off with a bike among other things, then fled on foot. I know all this because, a little before 7 o’clock, a police car pulled up right in front of me as I was sitting on the stoop, and two cops got out and went to knock on the basement apartment door.

The victim, who had a white T-shirt stained red wrapped around his hand, walked out from the apartment with the officers. He was shorter than me, but looked scrappy. He bounced around the sidewalk, looking very uncool and pissed off. He seemed fine. I could hear him explain details of what happened to the cops. Two male perps, black. Ran out the front door. A few moments later, another cop car arrived, followed by an ambulance. Then another cop car, but it had driven down the wrong direction on a one-way street. People kept stopping in front of the stoop asking me what the cops and ambulances were doing there.

There’s a good chance the perps had broken into the apartment while I was sitting there. There is also a good chance they took off from the apartment while I was STILL sitting there. None of the cops asked me if I saw anything, though, so I might be wrong about all that. But while I should have been paying better attention, that doesn’t undo the fact that it was all very entertaining. There I was just sitting there in the silence of the stoop, when suddenly: cop cars, bleeding vic, ambulances with blaring sirens. Then there were the vic’s pals, who all looked like goombas. I could hear them from inside the ambulance,

"Did you see what they looked like? Did you see what they looked like?"

"I never saw them before, goddammit! I just wanna go to the f*ckin’ hospital!"

And after a few more minutes, the ambulance took off, followed by the three cop cars. The neighborhood was silent again. Sam and thecomicman’s landlord, who had a stroke a few years back, came out of the front door and sat next to me on the stoop. He had me confused with someone, and he didn’t seem to believe me when I insisted that I didn’t live there. Or at least I THINK he thought I lived there. He kept asking me questions—very politely—but because he had had that stroke, I couldn’t understand what he was saying. But he kept grumbling things, and asking "Yes or no?" afterward. That was the only part I could understand: "Yes or no?"

I kept answering yes. I had no idea what I was agreeing with, but my answers seemed to make the landlord happy. But then his question-asking got more passionate. I said to myself, "If no one shows up by 8 pm, I’m going home." The landlord tore his copy of the supermarket shopper in half, rolled up one half, and started pounding his fist on the stone railing.
"If no one shows up by 7:30, I’m going home," I said to myself.

But Maggie and Sam inevitably showed up, so I didn’t go home early. And I’m glad I didn’t. I stayed over until 10 before making my trek back to Brooklyn. Given the hour and the decreased volume of subway trains, I didn’t reach my stop until shortly after 11 pm. So I’m walking down the street—it’s about a mile from the station to the block where the house is—and about halfway there a bus arrives. I thank my lucky stars and get on the bus.

Who should be riding home on that same bus, saying "Hello" to me right when I turn around, and wearing quite the fetching outfit composed of a purple dress shirt and black slacks? It’s the City College Campus Crusade for Christ, Chinese Chapter Chick. Her. My step-cousin. We hadn’t seen each other since I ditched her at the Christian rock concert two months ago.

You remember the concert, don’t you? The one she invited me to? Did I ever write about it? Okay, let me do so now. It was okay up until the dude with no neck, wearing a New Orleans Saints football jersey, got on stage and told us all that we damn well better get up on stage with him and confess our sins. Confess our sins because no of us are clean of sin. Get up on stage and confess! Get up on stage or burn in the fires of Hell! I found it interesting that he didn’t offer to confess any of his own sins, too, but I guess he’s pure or something. Pisses Evian and his flatulence doesn’t stink.
Well, frankly, that ticked me off. I make it a point not to pay money to have my self-esteem degraded, and certainly not by some wannabe jock. And the sad thing is, I really was having a good time. Had my stepcousin not been there with me, I would have gotten up, walked out, and slammed the door behind me.

To hear my stepcousin explain it afterward, some Christians are more extreme than others, but for the most part, they’re tolerant. I told her that’s all well and good, but this concert is also supposed to attract newcomers to the C.C.C.C.C., and No-Neck’s Jonathan Edwards style preaching was a bit of a gargatuan turn-off. I was feeling put-off by then, and frankly, her unassuming tolerance of her religion both shocked and terrified me. She had friends she wanted to congratulate for putting the concert together with her. It looked like we’d be there for a while, so I asked if she needed me to accompany her home, because I had a job interview the next morning.

Please note that the concert was on a Friday night, so even though I really did have a job interview scheduled, it probably sounded like I wanted to go home. She said her friends would drop her off. I said "Thank you for inviting me," shook her hand, and went home by myself.

Fast-forward two months, and we meet again on the bus. We chatted for a while, and she actually asked how my job interview went. I explained that I didn’t get the position I interviewed for (I really had an interview!), but things were going okay overall. God, she’s still cute. I asked what she was doing coming home so late, and I found myself feeling relieved when she said it was a Church Club thing, and nothing to do with a date with some boy. I won’t lie; I really considered asking her out. I still could, but I can’t help believing it wouldn’t work out, that religion would inevitably get in the way. But it was really nice seeing her again.

WELL, YOU CAN’T ACCUSE ME OF ALWAYS SIDING WITH THE CRITICS. Having loved Pedro Almodovar’s "Talk to Her," I decided to rent "Todo Sobre Mi Madre," ("All About My Mother") also reputed to be a masterpiece. Having watched this well-directed, but overly whimsical and rambling farce, I can only remark, "?Por que? Esa pelicula no estaba tan buena."I mean, it’s an okay movie. But I don’t think it deserved the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar in 1999.
 
* SPOILERS AHEAD! *

The movie concerns itself with Manuela, a nurse who once played Blanche in an amateur production of "A Streetcar Named Desire." She has a teenage son named Esteban. For his 17th birthday, Manuela takes him to see the Tennessee Williams play, which is travelling with a legendary stage talent named Huma. After the production, Esteban tries to get Huma’s autograph. While crossing the street to catch up to her taxi, Esteban is struck and killed by a car.

Sounds a lot like Kieslowski’s "Blue," doesn’t it? Well, don’t worry. This is an Almodovar film, so it doesn’t take long before the plot veers into… stranger territory. Manuela raised Esteban alone; she knows who the father is, but never told him that she was pregnant. Assuming that he still lives in Barcelona, Manuela decides to find the man, to tell him that his son is dead. Of course, it turns out that the father’s name is Lola, that he’s a transvestite prostitute and occasional criminal, and he’s currently flown the coup, having robbed another transvestite prostitute.

Before Manuela can go back home disappointed, she’s pulled into the world of Lola’s jilted trans lover Agrado, who is also her old friend. In trying to help her trannie friend find work that doesn’t involve fellatio for money, she encounters a beautiful nun named Rosa. She’s played by Penelope Cruz in a performance that makes you just want to hug her. They all end up living together, more or less, with Manuela becoming a kind of den mother. As if this new family weren’t enough, the "A Streetcar Named Desire" tour, starring Huma, stops by Barcelona. Manuela is inextricably drawn to the play (It did, after all, have something to do with her son’s death.), and through an unexpected turn of events, ends up working for Huma.

There’s various other plotlines that are introduced and solved. Manuela gets to play Blanche in front of a packed house; Agrado invents The Vagina Monologues; and there’s a baby that leads to a cure for AIDS. (I shit you not.)

Now, I like whimsy as much as the next guy. And I don’t mind that much of Almodovar’s movie seems to plumb the grimier depths of society. But there’s nothing in this supposed masterpiece that either moved or amused me. The plot felt too artificial. Manuela goes to Huma’s play, and, (snap fingers) just like that, she ends up working for the legendary actress. The current Blanche is having personal problems, so Huma needs a replacement. Just like, (snap fingers) that, Agrado gets the job.

And then there’s the continuous references to "…Streetcar." I think the point is, we’re each of us one of the three main characters: Stanley the Brute; Stella the Suffering Wife/Lover; Blanche the Submissive Victim. The roles are in no way restricted to gender. There are women who are brutes, men who depend on the kindness of strangers, men who dress as women who depend on the kindness of strangers, men who dress as women who are brutes, etc. It’s a great juxtaposition.
 
Unfortunately, when Almodovar cuts from scenes of high drama in the play-within-the-play, to scenes of high drama in the movie, the latter scenes also come across as staged. There’s a scene where Manuela breaks down and tells Huma how their lives are connected. "’A Streetcar Named Desire’ has permanently marked my life!" she says, mascara running down her face. God help me, I broke out a laugh. Maybe the line lost something in translation.

The movie also features an extended scene where all four main characters sit in Manuela’s living room talking about sex. Women-bonding stuff which is supposed to be incisive but isn’t, and is supposed to be funny but isn’t. At least they didn’t break into a karoake "Ain’t No Mountain High Enough."

Yet there is good stuff here. The first half-hour leading up to the tragedy is excellent. Then there’s a transition scene where Manuela tells us, via voiceover, about how she left Barcelona to give birth to Esteban. Almodovar uses a POV shot of a train going through a tunnel, with a light appearing at the end. How perfect is that! Barcelona looks magnificent. And the inevitable confrontation between Manuela and Lola is handled in an unexpected way that is downright heartbreaking. By the time Lola finally comes around, you expect a monster, or at least a Kowalski-esque brute. Instead, you get everything else. Which goes back to how "…Streetcar" relates to everyone, and also doesn’t. Brutes can also depend on the kindness of strangers, but the formerly submissive victim finds her strength in granting that kindness.
 
* * *
 
FOR THOSE WHO HAVEN’T HEARD, THERE’S A NEW SHIITE EXTREMIST GROUP IN IRAQ CALLED “THE SWORD OF GOD.” They’ve threatened to kill any lawyer who defends Saddam Hussein in court.

In a related story, Saddam Hussein has signed off on the day’s minutes of his trial. In return, he gets to cross off “Defending Self in court” from the list of possible ways to be put to death.

SO I WAS IN THE VIDEO STORE THIS MORNING, AND I DISCOVERED A COPY OF "THE FURY," Brian DePalma’s 1979 sci-fi thriller, tucked away on a bottom shelf. Thank God for all the old independently-owned video stores in Brooklyn. Anyway, I rented it, watched it, loved it, and then broke the tape while rewinding it. Now, it’s entirely possible that the tape can be fixed, but it’s an old tape—produced in 1980 by a company I’ve never heard of called “Magnetic Video,” and feels like it weighs five pounds. A tab for one of the spools got yanked out by the tape rewinder, and now it plinks around inside of the frame like one of those little metal balls in a pachinko machine. So I’m writing about the movie now, because it’s great, it’s probably tough to find, there’s a good chance I’ve derived future generations of the copy that was in my store, and the details are still fresh.

“The Fury” opens in 1975, in the Mid East. Government agent Peter (Kirk Douglas) loses a swimming race to his son Robin. After they wrestle on the beach for a while, in full view of Peter’s best friend Childress (John Cassavetes), father and son sit down for an important chat. Seems they’ve been living out there in the Mid East for quite a while, but they’re finally going back to the States. Robin will be attending a school called the “Paragon Institute” in Chicago, which specializes in children with extraordinary gifts. It seems Robin has quite the extraordinary gift: psychic power. He’s still quite latent, but Childress thinks the Paragon Institute is the perfect setting for Robin, where he’ll be able to develop his gift to its fullest.

Then some Arabs attack. Peter and Robin get separated, and things look pretty hairy for the old man. However, since he’s a highly-trained government agent, he manages to kill off most of the attackers, then mounts a motorboat so he ride out to Robin. But the boat explodes, killing Peter. Robin is traumatized. Peter’s friend quickly has guys from the agency whisk Robin to safety, then he stays behind to consult some of the pro-American militia. It turns out—Da-da-DAH!—Peter’s supposed friend planned the attack. Peter turns up alive, shoots his supposed friend in the arm, then escapes to plan his next move.

Fade-in to Chicago, 1979. A young woman named Gillian hears voices talking to her when she’s on a crowded boardwalk. Later, at the private school she attends, a scientist from the Paragon Institute named Hester performs an experiment on bio-feedback. She asks for volunteers; on a whim, Gillian agrees to be her guinea pig. Not only does she exhibit extraordinary bio-feedback, but she has a startling vision of someone she’s never met before. Hester is clearly interested in Gillian’s potential.

Next we see some feds tapping phones. It turns out Peter is in the area, and he’s been trying to find out the whereabouts of his son for the past four years. Feds storm Peter’s apartment, and he gets out with only his boxers and a gun. He sneaks into the apartment of an old couple and their mother-in-law. The scene between Peter and these strangers, who are more annoyed than terrified of him, demonstrates DePalma’s truly weird sense of humor. When Peter first walks in on them, brandishing his gun, they tell him they don’t have much money. Peter assures them he doesn’t want money, only clothes. “I had to leave my hotel room on short notice,” he says. “Anything you got will do. Some old clothes, perhaps.” “Old clothes, huh?” replies the husband. Then Peter reaches into his pocket, realizes he doesn’t have any in his boxers, and adds, “Oh, uh, as you can see, my pants are still in my hotel room. Would you be able to spare a few bucks?” The husband does one of those “That figures,” eye-rolling bits. Funny stuff.

Peter eventually leaves the apartment, after donning a disguise, but not before explaining his mission to the mother-in-law. “I packed you some cookies for your trip,” she tells him, handing him a paper sack. “I hope you find your son. And if those FBI guys get in your way, SHOOT ‘EM! That’s what they all deserve.” Also very funny.

Back to Gillain: After getting pissed off at a classmate and causing her nose to bleed profusely, she goes for tests at the Paragon Institute. The researchers there (led by Charles Durning) are impressed by her powers. Most subject they get are “fakers,” as Hester tells her, but Gillian seems to be the real thing. Not only does she have a gift for channeling electricity—which caused her classmate’s nosebleed—they discover she has a psychic link to Robin. Walking around the Institute grounds, she can see the place through his eyes. An especially powerful vision features Robin falling out a window, possibly to his death. The doctors at the Paragon Institute find this unexplainable link remarkable, as does Peter’s traitorous ex-friend Childress, who always seems to be lurking in the shadows.

I won’t give away much more of this wonderful film, save to say there is a team-up, a journey to Childress’ secret base, and a truly explosive ending. I really hope this movie is available on DVD, because everyone should go out and rent it right now! How strange that it’s rarely brought up by DePalma fans, even in film mag articles about him. But it certainly belongs in the director’s oeuvre. More than the technically-proficient and well-executed set-pieces (Long tracking shots, crane shots that start on high then lower to the ground, a la “Scarface”), more than the aforementioned strange humor, more than the occasional Hitchcockian aesthetics (Sequences that progress in aching slow-motion while booming melodramatic music plays in the background)—“The Fury” drips with DePalma’s pessimistic worldview. DePalma and his screenwriter imagine a world where the government will not hesitate to kill a father and steal his child, should that progeny display, as Childress says, “the potential of an atomic bomb.” Childress and his unmentioned agency raise their gifted youth in the posh seat of royalty, but in the process, they destroy their souls. They create amoral, insane killers who lash out with their powers in an attempt to fill their own personal emptiness.

As a final show of DePalma’s unsettling worldview, Peter is coerced into what he thinks is a reunion with his son. But love does not triumph over all in DePalma-land. Like his conspiracy flick “Blow-Out,” which was released three years after “The Fury” in 1981, the noblest intentions mean nothing here. In DePalma-land, those who wield the power are the ones who win out. While that doesn’t mean Childress the puppet master gets to walk away clean, justice in this movie has more to do with inevitable comeuppance than reassuring the audience of its values. They can go to Spielberg for that.

-LOOKS LIKE NORTH CAROLINA SENATOR JOHN EDWARDS will be John Kerry's choice for Vice-President. News came out this morning. Good thing, too, because the suspense was killing me.

On a related note, former Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein agreed to sign off on the minutes of his trial today. In exchange, he got to cross, "Forced to keep waiting to find out who John Kerry's VP choice will be" off the list of ways to be put to death.

-CNN says that The New York Post ran, "KERRY CHOOSES GEPHARDT FOR VP," as its cover story. Apparently, they jumped the gun. No one I know reads The Post (Except me), but maybe somebody picked it up, just for the Dewey-esque blurb. If so, save me a copy?

-Finally, apologies to Jay. I won't be able to go on that road trip. I've spent too much money on gas here in Miami, so I'll need to go back to work immediately once I return to NYC. I would've gotten back to you sooner, but I stopped checking my blog for comments (Who comments?) a while back. Have a great trip!

THERE WAS A QUOTE IN THE PAPER THIS MORNING FROM FRANCIS COPPOLA REGARDING BRANDO’S DEATH. Coppola said that, “Marlon would hate the idea of people chiming in to give their opinions about his death.” Very well. Instead of further chiming, we’ll move on to a new game I’m introducing called

COUNTING MINUTES WITH SADDAM!

As everyone knows, the new Iraqi government has put the former dictator on trial. You’d think this would be a humbling experience for the former Middle Eastern strongman, but instead of whimpering before his judges, Hussein continues to claim that he is president of Iraq. Also, he refuses to sign off on the minutes of his trial.

Perhaps Saddam suspects that he will be put to slow, agonizing death, no matter how much he tries to placate his judges. So why kowtow? You know, if I were in the former president’s shoes, I would try to broker a deal wherein they save face while I save skin. Here’s how it would work:

For every time I, Saddam Hussein, sign off on the minutes of the trial, I cross off a possible method of execution by my enemies. So let’s say I sign off on the last half-hour of the trial. Now I get to cross off “Crushed by heavy stones” from the list of ways of being put to death.

Everybody would win! This trial will probably be a long one, requiring much signing off on Hussein’s part. If the former dictator gets to determine some of the ways he DOESN’T get fed to the worms, he could end up choosing between painless lethal injection and process of old age. A moral victory for him!

Hey look, another two minutes went by. In exchange for signing off on those, Hussein gets to cross off “Smothered by Marlon Brando’s casket.”

MARLON BRANDO DIED FRIDAY, JULY 2ND, 2004, OF LUNG FAILURE AT A LOS ANGELES HOSPITAL. He was 80 years old.

I first caught the news of Brando’s passing on CNN around noontime. The coverage continued, uninterrupted at first, then sporadically, for the rest of the afternoon. And I was watching CNN for most of that time. I saw the words, “MARLON BRANDO, 1924-2004” in big white letters at the bottom of the screen. At some point, for a scant few seconds, an extra “G” appeared at the end of the first name, so that it read: “MARLONG BRANDO.” The extra “G” quickly faded like a ghost. I rewound the Tivo, thinking my eyes had deceived me. But there it was again. “MARLONG BRANDO.” Had it been a technical glitch, or some prankster in the CNN control booth having a little fun?

You expect a little mirth when a popular and public figure like Marlon Brando passes away. After all, he was “the greatest actor the world has ever known.” He forever changed the sport and spectacle of acting. He was a legend, and many of the roles he played have become permanently identified with him. Stanley Kowalski. Terry Malone. Vito Corleone. Colonel Kurtz. (Okay, Kurtz was already immortalized by T.S. Eliot. But when someone speaks the name of Kurtz, I automatically picture Brando.) And again, Brando was “the greatest actor the world has ever known.” Geez, that’s a pretty tall order, isn’t it? To be placed on a pedestal that high, eventually, people will want to take you down a peg. People will disagree with the assertion that you were the greatest.

Was Brando the greatest? I missed all his movies during the 60’s, so I’m probably not the one to ask. Maybe “Candy” really is an underappreciated gem. But I can’t picture the Vito Corleone role in “The Godfather,” or Colonel Kurtz in “Apocalypse Now,” as being played as well by anybody else. I never knew Brando in his prime. At best, I saw the movies of his twilight; “The Island of Dr. Moreau” (1996); “The Score.” (2001) By then, he no longer seemed involved in his acting, but I bought tickets to see those movies in the theater, anyway, and I fixed my eye on him every time he was on-screen. Because I remembered “The Godfather,” “Apocalypse Now,” “A Streetcar Named Desire,” “On the Waterfront”—heck, even Andrew Bergman’s “The Freshman”—and Brando was great in all of those. So I kept watching and waiting for him to pull out another exceptional Brando moment, to show that he was still “the greatest actor the world has ever known.”

Unfortunately, another legendary Brando moment never materialized. By the late 90’s, the time I was starting to get to know Brando, he had become too comfortable in presenting a screen presence, but not necessarily acting. Remembering the various biographies written about him, I recall this game he said he played with his directors. He would do a scene twice, one time simply going through the motions, the second actually investing himself in it. If a director couldn’t figure out which one was which, Brando would refuse to work with him. To the gossip-mongers on the film scene, this represented Brando at his most arrogant. But maybe he didn’t really mean it. Maybe he was just playing around, but he knew he could get away with it because he was Brando. I wonder if, deep down, that bothered him, knowing people took him so seriously, when he didn’t treat his own craft with that much reverence?

“No man is an island, though some resemble it.” That was from a zeppelin-sized, Kurtz-esque character from a long-defunct cartoon called “Duckman.” It was a Brando joke; the character followed it up with such non-sequiters as, “The money… the money…” “You have a right to kill me, but you don’t have a right to judge me. Wait. Reverse that.” And my friend Fernando’s favorite: “General Zod, Krypton will be destroyed!”

Brando jokes. Who knows how he felt about them. Still, would it surprise anyone to hear that he appreciated the jokes made at his own expense? They (biographers) say that Brando was bitter in the years leading up towards the end, angry that his children turned out so badly, upset that the women he trusted betrayed him. Maybe he was resentful that the great talent God granted him hadn’t led him to lasting happiness. It gave him gobs of money and instant bedmates. But he never ceased to be revered, never ceased being “the greatest actor the world has ever known.”

And yet, as critics all over CNN pointed out, Brando was never one to turn down a hefty paycheck. If he wanted anonymity, he could have done like Orson Welles, and expanded himself artistically at the expense of commercial appeal. But too often, Brando took the money, filmed the dreck, and became more and more disillusioned. Perhaps he is what his strongest critics assert: a spoiled man-baby who got all the toys he wanted but was still never satisfied. But even if I say I accept that, “MARLONG BRANDO” feels wrong, while “the greatest actor the world has ever known” still feels right.