Archive for July, 2007

26
Jul
07

You Must Not Know ‘Bout Bea

CNN gleefully covered an onstage spill from Beyoncé recently. It reminds me of the time I saw Bea Arthur fall off a stage in Minneapolis.

She was barefoot and resplendent in a flowing white kaftan. Or something. During a story about a fistfight with Elaine Stritch or something, she moved slowly backward into a poorly lit part of the stage. And then, in an instant: a wisp of white taffeta, like smoke, and she had vanished.

A gay guy in the front row gasped. A small child began to cry somewhere. And then, from the darkness, Ms. Arthur’s voice rang out like a call from God:

“Ladies and gentlemen. I am all right.”

Exuberant applause erupted from the assembled masses, and she took to the stage once again, without so much as a limp. It was inspirational.

20
Jul
07

Diamonds are Indeed Forever

Rivaled only, perhaps, by Alanis Morissette’s cover of Black Eyed Peas’ “My Humps” is this startling yet gorgeous rendition of Pink’s “Get This Party Started” by the legendary Shirley Bassey. A friend of mine directed me to this video confection at Joe. My. God.
Girlfriend sure looks good enough to eat! I wasn’t sure it was even her at first. Immediately, her take on this song seems utterly wrong to me, but seconds later, she wins me over.

I was a great fan of her Propellerheads collaboration “History Repeating” until Graham Norton killed it by making it his theme song. It’s great to see that this woman is still having fun. Catch the laugh on her face when she sings “I’ll be burning rubber/You’ll be kissing my ass”!

20
Jul
07

I Want to go to Prison, Too!

This is one of the most fabulous things I have ever seen. On so many levels.

Bear in mind, this is supposedly a prison in the Philippines. I love the guy who plays Michael’s date.

20
Jul
07

Just My Luck

Should I consider it a good omen that a bird shit on me late last night while walking home from the bar?

If so, then good luck has been clamoring to find me this week. On Wednesday, as I was crossing 9th Avenue toward my new barber, I heard a splash near me on the pavement, maybe a foot away from my shoe. It was surprisingly loud, considering the level of midday city noise, and blended in well with the customary filth of the street. Looking up, I saw a row of pigeons on a streetlight suspension wire.

I considered myself lucky at that moment that I had dodged a bullet, so to speak. I mean, there’s a time and a place, right? Apparently that time was about midnight and the place was 82nd and Roosevelt Avenue in Queens.

As the train passed, I felt something light strike me in the chest. I thought it might be some small piece of debris falling from the underside of the elevated tracks of the 7 train, but whatever it was seemed to have stuck there. I could feel its light weight sitting on my chest. Without thinking, I reached up to my chest to feel what it was, and my hand slid across the warm, slippery substance and came away with a bit of bird shit.

It was the color of graphite and much more solid than I had expected, like an exuberant dollop of acrylic paint. And it covered a good three or four square inches of my shirt. It was revolting.

The last time a bird hit me, I was about 7 or 8 years old and standing under a tree. It hit me on the back of my right hand. I wiped it off on the tree trunk without comment and carried on with the business of hide-and-go-seek. With the enormity of New York’s pigeon population, I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often. At least it did not land on my head or on my face this time.

There was a rumor for a while that a bird once shit in Cyndi Lauper’s mouth, back in 2004, while she was going for a long note at a concert in Boston. “My grandmother says it’s good luck,” she said, “but I think it’s disgusting.”

She put the rumor to rest recently: “It is not true that a flying bird once pooped in my mouth when I was singing in a concert. It did not go in my mouth. It went on my lower lip. I could not taste it. I just wiped it off.”

The shit-upon shirt was my spare. Living in Queens and working in Manhattan, I have learned to carry my house on my back; never knowing when I will will get back home in the day, I always have a spare shirt, some basic toiletries, reading material, and sometimes gym clothes in a bag when I go off to work in the morning. So I changed back into my slightly damp shirt from earlier in the day.

I don’t particularly like the shirt. I got it from the clearance rack at Gap, and every time I wear it, I see three or four people wearing the same thing — without fail. I avoid wearing it if I am going out into the city. Maybe the bird was merely suggesting I retire the garment and try one of the boutiques along 82nd Street.

11
Jul
07

Desperately Seeking a Tony

A musical-loving friend of mine informed me recently that a new musical drawing from Desperately Seeking Susan, with songs written by Debbie Harry, is making its world premiere on London’s West End this fall.

A musical version of Desperately Seeking Susan seemed like a terrible idea to me at first, but the more I think about it, the more it seems the ridiculous storyline — amnesia, mistaken identity, escape from suburbia, true love vs. love at first sight, magic shows, “dangerous” jewel thieves — is PERFECT for Broadway!

I have read that the show will feature classic Blondie songs, including “Heart of Glass,” “Atomic,” “One Way or Another, and “The Tide is High,” “brilliantly” woven into the story. The show will also feature the debut of a new song by Debbie Harry, “Moment of Truth.”

Too bad Madonna isn’t penning the songs, I say. But Debbie Harry’s catalog feels more ’80s these days to me anyway. Time sort of stood still for Debbie, whereas Madonna is far away beyond the ’80s.

Apart from an original score by Thomas Newman, who went on to do write such masterpieces as the theme from Six Feet Under, Desperately Seeking Susan featured one song: “Into the Groove” — which, tragically, won’t be included in this production! I wonder about these musicals being written from movies that had one song. Young Frankenstein, the musical version of which is to hit Broadway in the fall, had “Puttin’ on the Ritz.” Is that enough to work from? Who knows… Mel Brooks’ The Producers made it big. Spamalot, based on the film Monty Python and the Holy Grail, which featured “Always Look on the Bright Side,” was a runaway success.

9 to 5, another one coming up, has … well … “9 to 5” — an absolutely brilliant Oscar-nominated song — to work from. At least Dolly Parton is writing all new material.

My friend and I agree that there have been too many musicals that aren’t using new songs and music. Or even worse, musicals that shoehorn pop songs into the drama (Mamma Mia!) — or yet worse: musicals like Movin’ Out that simply string songs together with Scotch tape and distraction in order to jerk the action forward and dull the audience into an undeserved standing ovation.

Desperately Seeking Susan made Madonna’s career. That is the only reason I am interested. And Debbie Harry is enjoying a resurgence in caché with her recent involvement in Cyndi Lauper’s True Colors Tour. Let’s hope this one works out.

11
Jul
07

I am Jazz

Um… great. This is the one who gets killed in the movie.


Find out which Transformer you are at LiquidGeneration!

09
Jul
07

Left Behind

One wonders why there is a pair of boxer shorts politely hung from the black wrought-iron fence in front of the apartment building at my bus stop. But there they are, in the humid morning sun, half turned inside-out, as if hurriedly discarded, yet draped calmly over the spikes. Light blue they are, with a cheerful pattern of clouds or sheep or something soft-looking. Perhaps they are being returned to an occupant of the building, the borrower having forgotten the correct apartment number. They are flannel by the look of it, cozy, and far too warm for a day like today. Perhaps they were abandoned for some relief from the heat. Maybe this really is evidence of the Rapture. They appear to be about a size 34 or so. No one seems to notice them, or if they do, no one seems to be bothered. No one wants to appear to be bothered. In any case, no one wants to fold them up and take them home.

08
Jul
07

“If you wanna save the planet, let me see you jumping…”

My friends and I waited most of the afternoon yesterday to catch the Madonna concert on TV. Clever of her to conceal it in a worldwide series of concerts designed to raise awareness about — and presumably money to help combat — global warming.

We streamed it online live from London and displayed it on my friend’s wide screen TV. After some downloading and installing and rudimentary hacking, he got it set up just in time for the announcer to say, “Ladies and gentlemen… Madonna!”

She started with her new song, “Hey You,” which I’m not entirely sure I like a whole lot. But she was stunning and angelic in that simple black dress, her platinum-colored hair flowing in waves, her voice fine, soft and strong. With that children’s choir backing her up and the the arms of thousands swaying, it was a very Michael-Jackson-Heal-the-World moment. But better, because it was Madonna. Or maybe, to be more precise, because it was not Michael Jackson.

Then she sent the kids off and got down the business. She strapped on a guitar, took a wide stance, and called out to the cheering masses:
If you wanna save the planet, let me see you jumping up and down! Come on, motherfuckers!

Maybe not the message Al Gore had in mind, but it was easy advice for the obliging audience to follow. But who cares about messages? Madonna probably has one of the largest carbon footprints of the performers on the bill.

What was essentially the Confessions Tour version of “Ray of Light” was followed by the strangest version of “La Isla Bonita” I have ever witnessed in my life. The Romani Gypsies she called out to tear up the joint were totally weird and wild and crazy … and an absolutely perfect accompaniment to the song. My friends and I shot quizzical glances at each other at first, but then it suddenly seemed OK. Madonna wills it, and it is so.

She wrapped it up with “Hung Up,” just like her last tour. Countless performers and celebrities had taken that London stage throughout the day. They had all occupied the space and put in their time, and said kind and sometimes inspirational words and made pretty music. But when Madonna took that stage, she owned it. Duran Duran, Genesis, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Snow Patrol, Keane, Back Eyed Peas, Foo Fighters — all an elaborate opening act for one person.

Madonna brought the party that closed that show. I don’t know if it did much to stop global warming, but it sent the spectators out of Wembley feeling pretty darn good. Maybe it’s just what they needed after a day full of bad news.

04
Jul
07

The Verdict

Anthony and I decided that we didn’t care if the plot sucked or if the dialogue was dumb, we just wanted to see them transform. It’s a good thing we set our expectations thus. The film is a series of clichés strung together by a shoddy story. Still, Transformers is like the fulfillment of a life’s dream. And all it cost me was $11. Thank you, Michael Bay.

It is kind of like a long car commercial for GM, but product placement is no big deal to me (Apple, eBay, etc.). The fake computer science and government-military goings-on are getting harder to get away with as more realistic representations are shown on TV shows and cable news; Transformers is no exception. The dialogue was overwrought and sappy at times and could have been toned down a smidge, but when it’s sexy Shia LaBoeuf or dreamy Josh Duhamel saying the lines, who could hold it against them? (I guess it depends on what exactly you want to hold against them.)

The filmmakers screwed with the back story and the characters a lot more than they needed to. Bumblebee is a Camaro, not a Volkswagen. Fine. (They work a Beetle into the film anyway. I am satisfied by the nod to our nostalgia.) The cop car is a Deceptacon. OK, whatever. But they invent characters (Frenzy) and completely remake others (Devestator). And of course, Megatron can’t really be a gun that fits into Starscream’s hand — but what is he? Some sort of flying cannon?

And what’s with this All Spark contrivance? A device that has the power to create worlds — and to turn a Mountain Dew vending machine into a deadly fighting robot — is, in the end, kinda dumb. I’d have been satisfied with the original story from the cartoon: The Autobots crash land on earth, chased by the Deceptacons from their war-ravaged home planet Cybertron and wake up millions of years later. They rebuild themselves to mimic modern machinery: the Deceptacons, to ravage Earth’s resources to produce Energon cubes; the Autobots, to stop them and protect all human life. Elements of this made it into the film, but the result made even less sense than the original idea.

This is not to say, however, that I have any real problems with the movie. Without the transforming robots, there would be no movie, but the actors hold their own in the non-CGI scenes. There is a fair amount of actually funny comedy and some decent character development. Never before had I been tricked into thinking an 18-wheeler could be a sentient being.

They even made some improvements, in my opinion. I like the idea that Bumblebee has armor for his head and that Optimus Prime’s mouth is not a jiggling face plate but a a set of mechanical lips (though, Lord knows why) that only get covered in battle.

Incidentally, did anyone else think Starscream looked a little bit like the rancor monster from Return of the Jedi?

The reasons I went to see it were all there: The transforming effects were breathtaking. They kept the original sound effects of the transformations. They kept Optimus Prime’s voice! My heart swelled when he called out, “Autobots, roll out!”

Things I realized while watching this movie:

  1. Even robots blink their eyes.
  2. There is always someone in a movie who knows how to hotwire a car.
  3. Don’t worry: You can get through to the Pentagon from the desert in Qatar on a cellphone while under heavy fire from an alien robot in less than two minutes.
  4. You can always find “the only man in the world who can decipher this code” just up the street.
  5. Even though there are only a handful of evil robots invading Los Angeles, it is easy to forget that one of them is never accounted for when the scrap metal is disposed of.

Thank heaven, they set us up so nicely for a sequel.




the untallied hours