CROWN THEM QUEENS OF THE DERBY

For those who are interested, the Gotham Girls Roller Derby season ended last month with a laughter. Here's the story, courtesy of the Queens Ledger website.

It's been an up-and-down season for the Queens of Pain, which suffered through injuries and defections at the start of the year. But thanks to the development of some tough young skaters, and a key mid-season acquisition, the team went out on a high note, claiming its second straight Gotham Girls Roller Derby League championship.

On the way, they routed the Manhattan Mayhem in front of a sold-out crowd at Long Island University's Schwartz Athletic Center in downtown Brooklyn. As expected, Queens, which won by an unprecedented margin of 142-59, was led by star jammers Suzy Hotrod and Cheapskate, the latter of whom transferred over from the Lonestar Rollergirls of Austin, Texas.

The pair attacked Manhattan's slow-footed defense early and relentlessly, putting their team up 16-4 after a mere two jams. Both skaters heated up to a degree that made Queens virtually unstoppable. Hotrod led all scorers with 59 points on 12 jams, while Cheapskate came in a close second with 57 points on 13 jams.

Their balanced scoring, along with strong blocking and passing, was a welcome contrast from the Queens of Pain's inaugural game back on June 2, in which they lost to the Brooklyn Bombshells.

Queens looked like a one-dimensional club on offense, even before jammer and co-captain Rolletta Lynn suffered a serious knee injury. Lynn made her triumphant return in the championship bout, scoring 11 points on four jams. More importantly, however, she and teammate Scarlett Rage helped spell the two stars, giving Queens a multi-pronged attack that simply overwhelmed Manhattan, whose skaters looked too small, too sluggish, and too undisciplined to keep pace.

Rage said her team had been working hard all week in preparation for the championship round. "It's just practice, practice, practice," she said. "We have amazing blockers and amazing jammers, and we got better as the season went on. We really just gelled as a team."

With regards to the lopsided score, the redheaded skater, whose fiery hair color matched her competitive demeanor on the track, said they made an effort to not let Manhattan back in. "It was a tough call, because everyone wants a tight game," Rage said. "But you have to skate the best you can."

For their part, Manhattan probably mustered its best performance possible. When the two teams faced-off earlier in the season, Queens also won in convincing fashion, 84-43. This time around, aside from Lil Miss Stuffit, whose play accounted for 34 of her team's 59 points on 12 jams, everyone else wearing the Mayhem's orange prison-style jumpsuits struggled mightily.

Their second-leading scorer was Rippin Kitten with 13 points on nine jams.

Afterward, Queens assistant manager Kara Socky, filling in for an absent Archibald Q. Nemesis, was at a loss to explain her team's absolute disappearance on the track. "I have no idea, really," she told the Ledger/Star. "I thought we were prepared and ready. It shows that you just don't know."

At the onset, Manhattan looked prepared to try and intimidate Queens, a strategy that worked to a degree against the Brooklyn Bombshells. But even some hard bumping by Mayhem blocker Surly Temple failed to slow the game's tempo. In fact, after the rough stuff began, Queens went on a 17-3 run, capped by a 10-point burst by Hotrod putting them up 33-7.

Eventually, Queens showed the mettle that made them reigning champions - and lived up to their dominatrix-inspired moniker, to boot - by dishing out some punishment of their own. Midway through the first half, Rage landed a hard check on Manhattan jammer Baby Ruthless as Hotrod split the pack for four points. Two jams later, Hotrod shrugged off another hit by the Mayhem, this one from blocker Gogo Baibai. In retaliation, the Queens star circled the track, skated up alongside Baibai, and sent her crashing to the floor.

Fouls meant that both sides had to skate shorthanded during jams. However, Manhattan could not take advantage of any mismatches - a problem that plagued them throughout the night - while Queens exploited almost every Mayhem miscue for big points. That was evident in the second half as Manhattan jammer Roxy Balboa, frustrated at her team being down more than 50, threw an elbow at Cheapskate. Unfortunately for the Mayhem, the foul landed their point-scorer in the penalty box. Cheapskate proceeded to skate at will, racking up nine points to Manhattan's zero, increasing Queens' lead to 102-38.

Those nine points were part of a 31-4 run by Hotrod, Cheapskate, and Lynn, who scored eight, 19, and four points, respectively. That effectively killed any hopes the Mayhem had of making the score look competitive, although they did achieve something of a moral victory with the game already out of reach. During a late game jam, Lil Miss Stuffit scored eight points, while a teammate upended Hotrod into the V.I.P. section.

Among the Queens flankers who stepped up down the stretch, Joey Hardcore and Ana Bollocks provided their usual physical presence, and rookie blocker Stevie Kicks came up with a few pretty assists, using her arms to "whip" teammates into scoring position. Kicks, who took a more significant role after Bessie Smithereens left to attend Tulane Law School in June, said that the Queens' coaching staff and players scouted Manhattan in the weeks leading up to the match.

In the end, however, everyone concluded that playing their usual game, and playing it well, represented the most likely path to victory. "We try to look at the style of the other team, but it's more about how we skate together," Kicks said. "Our strategy is basically the same. It's about how we gel as a team."

Indeed, as far as banding together was concerned, this year's Queens of Pain compared favorably to last year's model. Manager Bust'er Cheatin, who coached that team all the way to the championship, commented that Bronx, whom they defeated by one point in the semi-finals, would have been a more worthy opponent.

In a few sentences, he may have sowed the seeds for the Gotham Girls' first big rivalry. "We were lucky to have beaten Bronx last time," Cheatin said. "We wish that it was [them] we were playing in the final, but this is the way the brackets worked out."

The future in doubt?

• With the regular season and post-season all wrapped up, the Gotham Girls Road Team hits the road, competing against leagues in New Jersey, Providence, and Philadelphia.
• Back home, after one month off, a call will go out for new talent. Following tryouts, teams representing the four boroughs draft skaters to play on next season's clubs.
• The league is reportedly still looking for a warehouse space large and cost-effective enough to practice in. As far as game venues for next year, the Gotham Girls have received positive feedback from both Long Island University and Hunter College, which could alternate hosting duties once again.

THE SHITHEAD EXPOSER'S BURDEN

The following is a piece of supposed “satire” written by an actual New York City Parks Department employee, David Langlieb, for his Haverford College Alumni magazine. I want to point out that these are not my opinions. While I am reprinting them (I couldn’t post a link, since Haverford College apparently removed them from the Internet), that is for purely instructional purposes. In my opinion, this is ineffective satire, composed by a man who had no idea what he was doing. It caused quite a stir at the last Community Board meeting I covered, and while I am not sure Mr. Langlieb should lose his job over it, I do think a public apology is in order, so long as Mr. Langlieb doesn’t write it himself.

Here is the offensive essay, entitled “The Black Squirrel’s Burden,” with pointed criticisms to follow:

THE BLACK SQUIRREL’S BURDEN

By David Langlieb ‘05

What separates a Haverford education from a Yale education or a University of Phoenix education? You guessed it: A commitment to social and civic responsibility. This is why after graduating from Haverford in 2005 I decided to move to a neighborhood where I knew I could make a difference. That neighborhood was Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

Greenpoint is a tightly knit, working class, semi-urban community of first- and second-generation Polish immigrants. It's the kind of place where the old ladies shop at Gus's Fruit Stand instead of Wal-Mart, and parents take their kids to the park on Sunday nights to play softball and drink lemonade. Communities like Greenpoint are a dying breed in America, and thank God for that. Try ordering a Venti Caramel Macchiato at the Franklin Street coffee shop and you'll see what I mean. While the community has several problems, most of them come back to the high density of Polish people infesting its rowhouses. Mocking Poles for being stupid is perhaps the last form of politically correct prejudice, as well as the most accurate. The other day I asked a local Polak shopkeeper if he'd heard the one about the Polish guy who tried to fill up his gas tank by driving the car in reverse. The shopkeeper didn't respond because he'd accidentally put his pants on his head that morning and the waistband was cutting off his hearing.

I'm kidding, of course, but Greenpoint's problems are no laughing matter, and they won't be solved by teaching the locals how to wear pants. The Greenpoint business district, for example, is even uglier than the morons who work there. Shoddy hand-made signage pollutes the storefront windows, and some of the signs aren't even in English. A friendly corporate logo or two would do wonders for the place. The good news is that it looks like they're opening a Blimpie on Calyer Street, where Ula's Deli used to reside. I'm not sure what they're doing with Ula, but maybe if she promises to clean her ears once in awhile they'll let her work the cash register.

Amidst these modest improvements are a few old-school New York charms. I'll admit that I was kind of intrigued by the bearded alcoholic homeless man who lives outside the subway station. That was cute for about five minutes. But day after day with the nonsensical screaming and the pointing... get over yourself, buddy.

So why do I live in Greenpoint? Because if I didn't, then it wouldn't get any better. Oh sure, I could move to SoHo or the Upper East Side like some of my fellow Haverford graduates who care only about themselves. But those places have already been saved and they don't need my help. If my Haverford education has taught me anything, it's that social change doesn't happen overnight. You must, if necessary, be willing to endure months of living without a Lord & Taylor in the immediate area.

Not to toot my own horn, but I've done wonders for the community. My non-ethnic whiteness, above average hygiene, and dependable income have already attracted new investments to Greenpoint. Private developers are within months of breaking ground on a massive high-rise condominium complex on the Greenpoint waterfront. There'll be a rooftop pool, a fitness center, and gorgeous views of the Manhattan skyline from across the East River. It's not quite perfect -- a small percentage of the apartments will go to low-income families but nine tenths of a loaf is better than none.

One thing I do worry about is that Greenpoint will gentrify incorrectly. This is what's happening in adjacent Williamsburg, where the Hasidic Jews are being displaced by hipsters. Sure, their parents give them enough money to keep the neighborhood looking decent, but the new population is almost as annoying as the old one. And yes, they do wear suits and ties sometimes, but only to be ironic. No thank you. I'd hate to see that happen to Greenpoint, because it has so much potential. It's a place I'd like to raise my kids: Within a stone's throw of Manhattan, amidst lawyers and investment bankers, and as shut off from civil society as humanly possible. I dream of a Greenpoint where Banana Republic is open all night, where groceries are ordered over the Internet, and where the churches are converted to mixed-use parking facilities. Mine is a Greenpoint of the future, sensitive to the desires of its residents who so desperately need a racquet club and driving range. Or who will, anyway, after the vermin are gone.

So join me, my fellow Greenpointians. That is, if you're literate enough to understand what I've written.

David Langlieb ’05 is a project manager for the New York City Parks Department.

Okay, so the awesome K. and I spent some time trying to figure out exactly what went wrong with Mr. Langlieb’s attempt at “satire.” Among the problems we dissected:

-None of the jokes about Poles work, even as “satire.” Why? Because satire usually contains a kernel of truth, whereas the attributes Langlieb pokes fun at – that Poles accidentally put their pants on their heads, don’t clean their ears, or are just ugly morons – don’t even fall within the realm of human behavior. Am I wrong? Are there famous Polack jokes that I’m missing?

-The middle section is just sloppily written. As K. pointed out, Langlieb starts off ragging on Greenpoint. Then, suddenly, he goes off on this “bearded alcoholic homeless man.” Since when did unshaven derelict drunks become a particular problem of Greenpoint’s? I’ve seen winos in all parts of the city, including SoHo and the Upper East Side – areas which Langlieb claims have already been saved by gentrification.

And while we’re on the subject of “saving,” Langlieb might have saved his own hide had he hired an editor. In the first paragraph, he states that what sets a Haverford education apart from any other is the “commitment to social and civic responsibility” that was apparently imbued upon him. But only a few short paragraphs later, he claims that his “fellow Haverford graduates” only care about themselves. This is just sloppy writing.

-Finally, it is my opinion that this only works as satire if Mr. Langlieb also pokes fun at himself and his idea of an ideal Greenpoint. But his description of such a place – “where Banana Republic is open all night, where groceries are ordered over the Internet, and where the churches are converted to mixed-use parking facilities” – hardly seems extreme or ridiculous enough. Instead, it seems awfully plausible. Greenpoint could very well become, “sensitive to the desires of its residents who so desperately need a racquet club and driving range,” as Langlieb puts it, and sooner than we think. Simply put, his opening goes too far, his closing doesn’t go far enough. The impression I end up with is someone who could very well believe that paradise requires the extermination of Poles.

I certainly hope Mr. Langlieb gets shunned at the water cooler over this.

MAN PUSH CART: ME FUCK STORY?

A few months ago, I started a new section at the paper entitled “Cinema.” I write articles for it every two weeks, which cover films set in the outer boroughs, directors who live there, or both if I’m lucky.

This past week, I wanted to write about “Man Push Cart,” a film you may have heard something about. It tells the story of a pushcart vendor, one of the many souls we see selling bagels and coffee on street corners in Manhattan every day. Naturally, there’s more to it than that, but I really can’t say more without giving away crucial plot points.

Also, I hadn’t seen the movie yet. Still, I very much wanted to interview Ramin Bharani, “Man Push Cart’s” director, prior to his film’s screening at the Queens Museum of Art. Since QMA wanted to generate as much publicity and interest in the picture as possible, they enthusiastically got me into contact with Bharani, with whom I set a date and time for a phone interview.

Until then, being pitifully self-conscious of my own nascent journalistic prowess, I planned to read every interview Bharani had ever participated in, to study his bio, look him up on the Internet Movie Database, etc., etc., so that I would be able to write a strong piece about him.

Then I got an assignment on the date of the interview and totally forgot to call.

To be fair, I did not forget so much as remembered several hours later. Unfortunately, I never did any of the homework I had carefully plotted out, so my call to Bharani – preceded by a mutter of “Oh, crap,” and my spilling onto the floor of the bedroom, where I had been peacefully reclining – was more or less cold. What followed was approximately ten minutes of questions that traveled in no certain direction, or in multiple ones at the same time. I was also in a slight panic mode, which meant I scribbled down information haphazardly, often with a short-handed version of shorthand. That will become important in a few lines.

Yesterday morning, I took those pages of notes with Bahrani and spliced together the preview article, sending it to my editor as soon as I finished proofreading it. With the day’s work done, and at least half-an-hour to kill before leaving for the office, I puttered around the apartment doing random things, checking my e-mail, thinking about the coming week’s stories.

I’m still not sure why, but I decided at length to e-mail a copy of the article to Bahrani. I expected to get a thank you note in reply, maybe a few slight suggestions for changes. After all, I reasoned, I couldn’t have fucked up the facts of the piece too badly; it wasn’t a long article to begin with, so there weren’t enough facts to really fuck up.

Oh, but there was at least one, and one fuck-up can be too many.

As it turned out, I got Bahrani and his film’s star, a Pakistani actor named Ahmad Razvi, confused with each other. One had spent years observing pushcart vendors as preparation for his role in “Man Push Cart;” the other had actually been one. On that topic, I confused Bahrani to Razvi, and vice versa.

Luckily, the former e-mailed me back just as Blaine, the managing editor, was about to leave the office. Bharani pointed out exactly where the mistakes had been, and I forwarded his notes to Blaine, who made the necessary changes. It was especially fortuitous timing since I cannot edit the layout myself, and we were going to press. Also, had we gone to print with the mistake, I have no doubt that some movie geek in Brooklyn or Queens would have caught it, causing the paper, myself, and the subject a heap of embarrassment.

For his part, Bahrani took the error in stride, and did thank me for the article. However, I don’t think of myself as being out of the woods yet, especially since he knows I will be attending QMA’s screening of “Man Push Cart” this Saturday.

Looking ahead to that date, I can’t help wondering what may transpire if I approach him, or ask him a question during the question-and-answer period that will follow the movie, and he notices the press pass dangling from my neck. Will he realize who I am? Will he immediately think, “There’s that newspaper reporter who made the bush league mistake?”

In the meantime, what I’m also wondering is, “Did the mistake come about because I was pressed for time last week? Or was this incident indicative of the rest of my work?” I guess I won’t know until the next article, the next phone interview, or the next response from a subject.

BEEN KEEPING UP WITH THE GOTHAM GIRLS?

Queens Of Pain Take It To The Wire

The Queens of Pain, reigning champions of the Gotham Girls Roller Derby league, will defend their title next month against either the Brooklyn Bombshells or the Manhattan Mayhem.

Star jammer Suzy Hotrod scored five points in the closing minutes to cap Queens’ comeback over the Bronx Gridlock. Meanwhile, recent addition Cheapskate showed the potential to be a valuable complementary scorer, racking up 34 points on 11 jams for her team.

Bronx was paced by Bonnie Thunders, who led all jammers with 43 points on 18 jams.

Queens’ next opponent will be decided by a Nov. 3 bout at the same venue where Oct. 13th’s took place: The Hunter College Sportsplex in Manhattan. In the league’s first action at Lexington Ave. and 68^th St., the Gotham Girls packed the stands with roughly 600 excited spectators, comparable to the season’s matches at Long Island University.

Ana Bollocks, a Queens of Pain blocker who served as producer, said that the league approached Hunter College prior to the season, right after losing the Skate Key in Bronx as a home. “When we lost our original rink, we went on an all-out search,” she said. “It didn’t work out here at first, so we skated at LIU.”

She said that a permanent venue and practice setting for the skaters are both still a ways away, and the next two games will get split between the schools. “We will still be at LIU in the future,” Bollocks said. “The staff at [here] wants to see how this goes first.”

Bollocks could not say if the rough-and-tumble, at-times dirty play exhibited by the Gotham Girls, who have been known to hip and shoulder-check one another into spectators lined up beside the rink, would necessarily jibe with Hunter College’s tradition of female empowerment.

But longtime fan Jimmy O’Connor, who commuted in from Brooklyn, said those kinds of unexpected thrills are exactly what make the league so appealing. “The first time [I saw] Queens and Bronx, a skater landed right on top of me,” he said. “It was fun. It’s cheap, fun, and takes you out of your everyday life.”

While skaters from neither team went flying into O’Connor this time around, the Queens of Pain did come out aggressive, and led by as much as ten shortly before the half. Cheapskate had 20 points by herself, the most thrilling when she sliced through a staunch Bronx defense, including their jammer Pop Rox, on her way to five points.

Meanwhile, Suzy Hotrod racked up 12, but Bronx stalwart Bonnie Thunders outscored her 4-0 in the last jam of the half to close the deficit to 42-36.

During the second half, foul trouble for Queens and shrewd strategizing for Bronx helped turn the game in the other direction. The Gridlock shifted Blissy Sadistic to jammer, who provided a quick spark, literally, scoring seven points on a single jam to whittle the Queens lead to three.

Thunders added three more points in the next jam, while the Gridlock’s defense began to live up to their name. Then Sadistic struck again, fending off the Queens of Pain’s Joey Hardcore for seven more points, tying the score. She would finish with an impressive 14 points on three jams.

As for Thunders, she played jammer for two consecutive rounds in which several Queens skaters were in the penalty box. Capitalizing on the superior numbers, she racked up nine points while her team held their opponent scoreless, giving Bronx a six-point lead – their largest of the game.

Pop Rox nearly sealed the win for the Gridlock with smart play during the second-to-last jam. After the Queens of Pain’s Suzy Hotrod zoomed through the pack, and appeared to be in good position to score some points, Rox swept in and knocked her down. That allowed Thunders to catch up, forcing Hotrod to call off the jam rather than allow Bronx to score points.

But with seconds left in the last jam, Hotrod would get her revenge, skating past all five Gridlock skaters – including Thunders. She passed the latter with less than a second remaining on the game clock to give Queens the one-point win.

Queens blocker/jammer Medula Oblongata, who raced over to congratulate her teammate by the bench, which exploded right after the buzzer sounded, never doubted that the game had been in the right skater’s hands. “She knew [time was winding down],” Oblongata said of Hotrod. “And we knew she could do it.”

When asked to put the excitement of the final jam into words, Queens manager Bust’er Cheatin could barely speak. “I can’t answer that question right now,” he said, clearly on the brink of hyperventilating.

But his voice became steadier when asked about his team’s chances for winning the league championship, and the contributions of their latest jammer. “We’re going to get [team co-Captain] Rolletta Lynn back, and get a lot of people back,” Cheatin said. “We lost five players, and replaced them all with [Cheapskate]. She’s a solid scorer.”

The Queens of Pain defeated the Mayhem earlier in the season, a fact not lost on their manager. “We have no idea who we’re playing, [but] if it’s Manhattan, yeah, we just had a very solid win against Manhattan,” he said. “I like our chances.”

EXTREMELY EARLY OSCAR PREDICTIONS

I’ve seen the best film of the year, and it’s Martin Scorcese’s “The Departed.” But since there’s still four other Best Picture slots to fill, the question becomes, “Which lucky movies will get to come in second for the title of 2006’s best projected entertainment?”

Now of course, the Oscar prognosticating started long before I wrote this post. However, I have an angle that I wish to explore, and no other web-based publication I’ve perused has harped on it yet. So here it is: Oscar-wise, 2006 will be remembered as The Year of the Woman.

Okay, what do I mean by that? It seems that every year, the majority of Best Picture nods can be categorized by a particular theme, some common quality that sets the quintet of would-be Oscar champions apart from the previous five. For example, 2005 might be recalled as The Year of the Socially-Conscious Movie, what with “Brokeback Mountain,” “Munich,” “Goodnight and Good Luck,” and “Crash” taking on Really Big and Important Subjects.

Meanwhile, I think of 2004 as The Year of the Biopic, represented by Best Picture nominees “The Aviator,” “Ray,” and “Finding Neverland.” From what I’ve heard, “Finding Neverland” may have been as accurate an account of J. M. Barrie’s life as “Shakespeare in Love” was for its own titular personage, but let’s not forget, 2004 also featured nominations in various categories for “Kinsey” and “Hotel Rwanda.”

How should we label 2003? How about The Year of the Big Sweeping Epic? After all, “The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King,” “Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World,” and “Seabiscuit” were among the five competing in Oscar night’s main event. Call me a pragmatist, but I can only assume that these three films had been nominated because they were Big Sweeping Epics. I back that assessment by reminding everyone that they combined for zero acting nominations.

2002 could be called The Year of Miramax, since the studio produced four out of the five Best Picture nominees. The year before, 2001, was no Year of the Space Odyssey, but rather, Tripping Down a Hole of a Different Kind, what with “The Fellowship of the Ring,” “Moulin Rouge!” and John Forbes Nash’s unstable brain in “A Beautiful Mind” representing just a few of the many high-profile, fantastical worlds that took the viewer someplace that wasn’t quite reality.

Having said all that, I’m already pigeonholing this as The Year of the Woman, since just about every movie with terrific word-of-mouth features challenging roles for actresses. For example, there is Stephen Frears’ “The Queen,” starring Helen Mirren as Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, coping publicly and privately with the death of Princess Diana.

On the other hand, Todd Field’s sophomore effort “Little Children” has drawn rave reviews for Kate Winslet, who plays a bored housewife. The premise – married couples cheat on each other in suburbia – may have drawn comparisons to “American Beauty,” but hey, that film won a truckload of Oscars.

Speaking of not forgetting, let’s not overlook the big American studios, which can also make movies about strong, inspiring female characters. This fall, DreamWorks has the musical “Dreamgirls” on-deck to score points with the American Idol crowd. I know next-to-nothing about it, except that it’s based on a Broadway musical set in the 1960’s, and revolves around a trio of black soul singers akin to The Supremes. As far as pedigree, “Dreamgirls” has a respected director in Bill Condon, who won a screenplay Oscar for “Gods and Monsters” and adapted the 2002 Best Picture winner “Chicago.” He was also nominated for Best Screenplay for his last film “Kinsey.”

So including “The Departed,” that makes four Best Picture nominees. What about the fifth? I have yet to hear raves for Clint Eastwood’s “Flags of Our Fathers,” while NBC film critic Jeffrey Lyons urged a bunch of us journalists to check out Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s “Babel,” which co-stars Cate Blanchett. But I’m thinking of going out on a limb, and predicting that the fifth Best Picture nomination will go to Pedro Almodovar’s “Volver.” It reportedly has Penelope Cruz in the performance of a lifetime. Also, Almodovar’s films won Best Foreign Language Picture twice in the last seven years, and his “Talk To Her” nabbed the 2002 Best Original Screenplay Oscar.

When it comes to foreign filmmakers with critical recognition on these shores, it’s seems reasonable to side with either Pedro or Ang Lee.

To recap, Phil X’s Extremely Early Oscar Predictions for 2006 are (alphabetically):

“The Departed”

“Dreamgirls”

“Little Children”

“The Queen”

“Volver”

Of course, that’s if “Jackass 2” doesn’t sweep the early critics’ prizes.

IMPRESSIONS OF MOVIES

Seeing a flick in New York City has gotten way too expensive, especially when you factor in the cost of riding the subway to and from the theater. Still, if you go early enough in the day, and fit in more than one, it actually balances out. Last Saturday, for example, I took in a double feature comprised of “The Departed” and “A Guide To Recognizing Your Saints” at the 42^nd St. AMC.

“The Departed” alone would have made the trip. Martin Scorcese’s latest opus is crass, violent, occasionally over-the-top, and exceptionally awesome. It’s a return to the genre that made the director so popular to begin with: the mob flick. But it’s also a remake of Andrew Lau and Alan Mak’s 2002 “Infernal Affairs,” that rare Hong Kong flick that actually got a theatrical life on these shores.

Despite a shared basic plotline – moles for the police and mafia infiltrate the other’s organizations, attempt to smoke out the other, and avoid detection themselves – Scorcese manages to craft what feels like a totally original movie. How does one explain this? It can’t just be the transplanting of action from Hong Kong to Boston, or the casting of Leonardo DiCaprio and Matt Damon for Tony Leung and Andy Lau, respectively.

If I had to guess, I’d say that culture plays a part in the differences. “Infernal Affairs,” like a lot of Hong Kong cinema, emphasized the action and suspense scenes, while downplaying the drama. “The Departed,” meanwhile, goes the totally opposite route. Like “Mean Streets,” “Goodfellas,” and other definitive Scorcese films, there is bloodletting and kill-shots galore, but these merely punctuate overall character development.

There’s also a discernible difference in acting styles between this film and its Eastern counterpart. Whereas the latter emphasized stoicism – Tony Leung never went hog wild except for dramatic effect – the colorful array of heroes and villains in “The Departed” frequently wear their passion on their sleeves. As a result, there’s a lot of ribald, really inappropriate behavior and dialogue, including a howler that involves cranberry juice and women’s biological functions.

With “The Departed,” Scorcese really returns to the same dingy depths as “Goodfellas,” and one gets the feeling that he’s at his most comfortable there. But equally at home during this excursion into the underbelly is Jack Nicholson as king snake Frank Costello, a hedonist so far gone that his motivations stem from sheer boredom. A crook with all the coke and hookers he’ll ever need, Costello is a walking example of that line from “Heat:” For him, “the action is the juice.”

Speaking of juice, there was also a lot of high-energy acting in “A Guide To Recognizing Your Saints,” the debut feature of Astoria native Dito Montiel. We clearly get the impression that his childhood was pretty bad, featuring a father who was too busy trying to be a man to actually be his dad.

There’s no shortage of macho posturing and obnoxious behavior in Montiel’s memoirs. Had I been watching “A Guide…” at home, I might have actually turned off the DVD player and gone to read a book. But I’m glad I stuck with it, because the acting by Robert Downey, Jr., who gets a lot of screen time later on as the director’s grown-up counterpart, is terrific. The movie may not end on the most satisfactory note, but you can’t make peace with the past without first returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak. This film is a fine chronicle of that important, initial step.

WHAT IS WISDOM THAT DOES NOT PROFITEROLE THE WISE?

I’m going to tell you a story that still seems unbelievable, as if it were the product of a fevered dream rather than cold, hard reality.

Make that creamy, sugary reality.

Okay, here’s what happened: I was walking down Leonard St. on my way to the supermarket last night. As I crossed Devoe St., I suddenly became aware of Italian music playing in the background, and strands of soft, white light bulbs strewn from one end of the street to the other.

Since neither K. nor I are Italian, but our neighborhood largely is, I assumed that I had stumbled across some sort of religious or cultural festival. Being a reporter, and having my camera concealed in my trusty backpack, I decided to walk over to the mass of white tents, ask a few questions, take pictures, and find out what was going on.

But little did I realize that I had stepped into a parallel universe, where cake flowed as liberally
as water, albeit with much more variety.

I’m not being hyperbolic, you disbelievers. The local pastry shop, Fortunato Brothers., happened to be celebrating its 30^th Anniversary on Monday. In commemoration of that historic day – which is no mean feat in our age of the revolving business – they threw a party on the adjacent block, with tables covering just about every spare inch of asphalt.

And on each table sat an assortment of delectable treats including tiramisu, chocolate mousse, babarum, and more. My Italian may not have been fluent enough for me to decipher exactly what “zupper ingles” means, but luckily, the human palate is a great equalizer of languages. One bite, followed by a smile, translates into easily-understood happiness no matter what culture you come from.

It almost matched the happiness I felt when I found out that everything - and I mean everything - was free.

That's right, we’re talking all-you-can-eat pastry at absolutely no charge. I indulged until I could indulge myself no more, then I walked to the next table for yet another serving. Thank the heavens that I am a spindly man, or last night could have been the end of me. As it was, I stumbled home clutching my stomach in my hands, half-expecting that the tiramisu in my arteries would cut off blood flow at any moment, instigating a fateful heart attack. I felt the seconds of my life ticking away, like sand falling through the neck of an hourglass, like chocolate shavings lightly dropping from the mouth of someone haphazardly eating black forest cake.

But over-consumption did not claim my life, and after several hours of sitting on the couch without eating, my body managed to absorb all that sugar and fat. Perhaps the gods also decided to spare my life since I had been carrying several plate-loads home for K., who was out until late. Either way, I made it through to morning, and as I type away at my computer, pausing only to munch on a comparatively healthy snack – an apple – the faint taste of decadence still lingers in my mouth.

With only those trace memories to remind me of last night’s excursion – oh, and some profiterole with lemon that K. didn’t take to work – it seems too good to have been true. Could I have imagined the whole thing?

Even if I did, however, I suppose that doesn’t change the essential truths that one night in cake-land revealed: That indeed, there can be too much of a good thing; that babarum, despite not tasting like liquor, does in fact contain alcohol; and that the love you make equals the love you take, judging by all the loyal customers who gathered in the street during a calm evening, bearing 30 years of fond memories.