Ish

That new David Spade show on Comedy Central is pretty darn good. No one does celebrity digs like the Spadester. Another plus that came from tuning in: I found out that I'm qualified to be a writer for his program. You see, I'm sure by total coincidence, he repeated a joke I'd said over my cubicle wall earlier this week about a certain eyesore of a sculpture that's supposed to resemble Britney Spears giving birth on a bear-skin rug. My joke and David's was in regards to the artist's intention that this piece of, um, crap, I mean, craftsmanship, would serve a pro-life symbol. Pro-life, that is, UNLESS YOU'RE A BEAR.

***

My first film outing in a fortnight led me to see Inside Man, the new Spike Lee film. When I saw the movie posters around town, I just wanted to keep driving. I haven't seen a more boring piece of key art since I dunno when. It looked like a generic hunk of big studio Olestra parading big names (Denzel, Jodie and non-generic hunk Clive) in lieu of big ideas. Later on I found out that it was directed by Spike Lee. Well, hello there. I'm a big fan and have seen almost all of his films (one notable exception: She Hate Me. WTF?) "Alright," I thought to meself, "maybe I'll give Spikey-poo a chance on this one." Then my homie gave it a hearty stamp of approval and MD'A wrote a rousing review of it. I was in.

I think the best word to describe this film is cracklin'. It's taut energy, fine acting, old-school movie humor and fresh storytelling (e.g., "flash-forwards" vs. flashbacks) kept me firmly coiled in my velveteen seat and kept me guessing. First-time screenwriter Russell Gewirtz deserves heaps of praise. The script's a crowd-pleaser, but also gives the crowd some credit for having enough gray matter to follow along and enough focus to stay along for the plot-twisting ride. Speaking of rides, one of my favorite parts of the film utilized Spike's "actor on a dolly" move. Seeing it made me feel like I was an inside man of a Spike Lee fan. Holla!

It's interesting that both Spike Lee and Woody Allen, two directors who tended to hug the sides of the cinematic pool of mass market success due to being true to their visions, have recently found themselves swimming victory laps with the most commercial films of their careers. At first glance, it feels like a bit of a sell-out. At second glance, it becomes apparent that they've done their "Hollywood picture" their way. Both Inside Man and Match Point are trip-wired with deeper themes--most powerfully, the corroding power of greed. Whether it's a NYPD detective who longs for a career break or a tennis coach who longs for a flat overlooking the Thames, seems that money is the root of all evil after all.

Supermodels and wee models

Around Thanksgiving time, 2005, two feuding supermodels walked the runway of reconciliation. I wasn't privy to the conversation, until FourFour recently linked to his recap of The Tyra Banks Show episode where the host sat down with her smirking nemesis for a cat and mouse heart-to-heart. If you'd like to enjoy a few minutes studying human behavior through the warped lens of Tyra and Naomi, FourFour will be there to guide you each step of the way in this funny, yet somehow mildly disturbing entry.



If you don't know Scottish artist David Shrigley's work, like the friendly warning post shown here (a more readable version can be found here), do yourself a favor and check it out. He's posted some of his funny photos featuring his own clever Amelie-esque random notes to the universe, which are also available in book form. A couple of my favorites: a request to be oblivious to a certain piece of architecture, a divied-up stump and an invitation to join an adventure club. Early risers only need apply.

Let go and let Goethe

Today I officially adopted a U.S. soldier serving in Iraq. It was easier than you might think. I didn't adopt him in the traditional wrapped-in-a-receiving-blanket way, but in a "Hey, I don't know you, but I'd like to send you a care package or something."

He's only 20 and works seven days a week on patrol, 12 hours a day. Those are the patrols shown in Gunners Palace where every random piece of trash on the road could be a goodbye note written to you in the form of an improvised explosive device. He was supposed to be done with his service in January, but got pulled back in under a loophole he didn't realize existed.

As much as I disagree with the deception that led up to the war and the fact that the U.S. chose to invade the country, and as much as I hate the suffering and casualties of Americans, coalition soldiers and innocent Iraqi citizens, I support our troops just like the magnetized bumper ribbons suggest (with the exception of the Abu Gharib and Gitmo bad seeds, of course).

So I've taken one troop in particular under my wing, so to speak. As in, I plan to send him plenty of Butterfingers and Adam Sandler movies. Anyhow, all that sentimental hogwash about how helping someone else will make you feel less bored or blue are true. Who the hell knew?

While I'm feeling all warm 'n' fuzzy, I'll also share this Goethe quote (another ubiquitously magnetized message):

"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Begin it now."

July in March

As if writing, directing and starring in the quirky and beautiful Me, You and Everyone We Know wasn't impressive enough, Miranda July writes a mean short story. I came across it in Zoetrope All-Story magazine and now it's been posted online. Here's the link to her tale called "The Shared Patio." She writes with a light touch and heavy heart. Quite a pretty pairing.

And here's an excerpt to whet your appetite:

"Vincent was on the shared patio. I was already behind in my patio use, so it made me a little anxious to see him out there, so late in the month. Then I had an idea; I could sit out there with him. There were two reasons I could do this. One: It's a free country, and two: Why not? I put on Bermuda shorts and sunglasses and suntan oil. Even though it was October I still felt summery; I had a summery tableau in mind. In truth though, it was really quite windy out there and I had to run back in for a sweater and a few minutes later I ran back inside for pants. Finally I sat in a lawn chair beside Vincent on the shared patio and watched the suntan oil soak through the fabric of my khakis. He said he always liked the smell of suntan oil. This was a very graceful way of acknowledging my situation. A man with grace, that's the New Man. I asked him how things were going at Punt and he told me a funny story about a typo. Because we are in the same business, he didn't have to explain that typo is short for typographical error. If Helena had come out we would have had to stop using our industry lingo so that she could understand us, but she didn't come out because she was still at work. She's a physician's assistant, which may or may not be the same thing as a nurse."

Read between the crosswalk lines

Breaking news:
I was in 90210 again today and saw her--the immaculately groomed Prada pushpin of a couple entries ago. It was a different day of the week than the first time I saw her (weekday vs. weekend), also a different time of day, also a different area of the neighborhood. I was stopped at a red light as she crossed in front of me, sipping on her lunchtime beverage. I drew in my breath sharply and muttered to myself, "It's her!"

Again, she was magnificently turned-out, this time in a different tailored suit jacket. It was just as delightfully detailed and sculpted as the first. The only criticism I would offer was that she was wearing the same hand-painted, silk-looking shoes. I suspect they put her back several hundred dollars, so I can cut her some sartorial slack in wearing them twice within 72 hours.

So now the mystery thickens. Is she a visiting diplomat? A shopgirl in a very snooty Beverly Hills boutique? An executive assistant for a high-rolling investment banker? An investment banker herself? I would trust her with distributing my filthy lucre to various blue chip funds, based on her exquisite taste and presentation. Speaking of investments, now I'm invested in finding out more about her. Perhaps she was sent from the future to give me a message. I hope I'm enlighted soon.

***

In accordance with one of my New Year's resolutions, I've been reading more. Here are a couple of my favorite passages from my most recent literary acquisitions.

An excerpt from Joan Didion's novel entitled Play It As It Lays:

Two or three times a day she walked in and out of all the hotels on the Strip and several downtown. She began to crave the physical flash of walking in and out of places, the temperature shock, the hot wind blowing outside, the heavy frigid air inside. She thought about nothing. Her mind was a blank tape, imprinted daily with snatches of things overheard, fragments of dealers' patter, the beginnings of jokes and odd lines of song lyrics. When she finally lay down nights in the purple room she would play back the day's tape, a girl singing into a microphone and fat man dropping a glass, cards fanned on a table and a dealer's rake in closeup and woman in slacks crying and the opaque blue eyes of the guard at some baccarat table. A child in the harsh light of a crosswalk on the Strip. A sign on Fremont Street. A light blinking. In her half sleep the point was ten, the jackpot was on eighteen, the only man that could ever reach her was the son of a preacher man, someone was down sixty, someone was up, Daddy wants a popper and she rode a painted pony let the spinning wheel spin.

***

As I read more of Jonathan Ames' confessional, neurotic, hilarious personal tales, I'm becoming a bigger and bigger fan of his. In fact, I'm nearly engorged. Outside of his near-constant onanistic thoughts, he and I seem to have a lot in common when it comes to how we translate the world (i.e., inner monologue). It's very comforting. And flattering. And, OK, a little worrying.

An excerpt from Jonathan Ames' collection of essays entitled What's Not to Love?":

I looked out the window; the Midwest was very dark and my thoughts were dark--I try to create literature and I'm sent anonymous bras. I moved the conversation off of writing.

"I feel very Jewish out here, away from New York City," I said. "It's a good thing I left my yarmulke back home."

"I don't mean to frighten you," he said apologetically, "but the town next to the school has a big headquarters for the KKK."

"That's all right, I belong to a Jewish terrorist group. These people really don't scare me."

"Really? The JDL?" He was naive and decent.

"Oh, no, it's called the Oy, Oy, Oy. We infiltrate organizations like the KKK and the neo-Nazis with an undercover, subversive agent--a worrier. Notice the similarity to the word warrior. And this worrier then transmits profound anxiety and insecurity into these groups, destroying their confidence, Yiddifying them, and making them less prone to violence."

He was a good sport and laughed, though I was a little concerned about wasting such material on him.

SJP needs a BLT

My sister and I went to see Failure to Launch, the #1 romantic comedy in America, this weekend. It was better than I expected, but I expected very, very little. I have a problem with Matthew McConawhatever. His self-satisfied smarminess and slurred twang have never been my cup up lentils. I love Sarah Jessica Parker, but the trailer I'd seen didn't give me much hope. The thing is, when you're at surburban multiplex you have to make do. It was either FtL or V for Vendetta. Since I was creeped out by the villain in the freaky mask and scared off by the promise of Natalie Portman's terrible, terrible acting skills, I preferred to see Terry Bradshaw naked. (I'm sorry, guys, I know Natalie's adorable, but I saw the clip of her sobbing during the head-shaving scene and wanted to guffaw.)

Anyway, FtL was breezy and buffoony. Not the worst romantic comedy I've seen by a long shot (e.g., Notting Hill). Zooey Deschanel was the best part of the film for me. She got some sincere laughs from the audience with her deadpan delivery. I see great things for her. Even greater than feeding SJP expository dialogue. Speaking of SJP, I know she's always been thin, but she's kicked it up a notch. The "S" in SJP now stands for "Sinewy." With her fake tan in the film, she looks like a piece of beef jerky with blonde hair. I suspect a case of failure to lunch.

Made me look

Billowy white clouds surrounded downtown Beverly Hills like a Scandia down comforter as I walked down the sidewalk on an afternoon shopping errand. While I was waiting for a crosswalk signal to give me the green walking man symbol, a 30-something woman stepped in front of me to get first dibs on the curb. Her positioning gave me a chance to eye her without being noticed. And eye her I did.

She was the most exquisitely dressed person I had seen in as long as I can remember. Perfectly groomed. I would guess she was Spanish based on her coloring and features. Flawless, tawny skin. High cheekbones. One of those women you'd call handsome. Her dark hair was slicked back in that severe fashion J-Lo sported at the Oscars. She was wearing glasses, but the chic kind that serve as an architectural accessory versus nerd alert shorthand. In shades of pale grey from head to toe, she wore a chic jacket that was perfectly tailored with sweet little seams scooping out the back and curving into a flaired hem. Her skirt was box-pleated in a woolen, mini-windowpane plaid of grey and the palest of pinks. (If you're picturing Talbot's, think Milan instead.) Her shoes looked like hand-painted silk with dramatically pointed toes that reached toward the asphalt, as the top of her head reached to the sky with ballerina-worthy posture.

I was in awe. I was in awe in my yoga pants and t-shirt. My casual garb had blended in with the locals and Rodeo Drive tourists, but this woman was a like a Prada pushpin on an American Eagle Outfitters bulletin board--standing poised and in sharp relief from all around her. That moment with her made me realize what a fashion wasteland the West Coast is and how lazy most Southern California residents are about their clothes. It's a shame, really. But as much as I admired her as a beacon of grooming and fashion savoir faire, just the thought of the care it took for her to put on her silken stockings without a snag or pucker or irregular shadowing pattern exhausted me. I have no patience to imitate that level of perfection. I barely have patience for the crosswalk sign to change.

Blog hoors

Some statistics about Wal-Mart included in a recent issue of Adbusters magazine:

"If Wal-Mart were a nation, it would be one of the world's top 20 economies. The largest private employer in the world, Walmart employs one of every 115 workers in America--more than GM, Ford, GE and IBM combined."

"As a result of Wal-Mart's low wages and poor benefits, hundreds of thousands of its workers rely on government programs, including tax credits and deductions for low-income families, food stamps, and housing assistance, to get by--sticking taxpayers with an estimated annual tab of more than $2.5 billion dollars."

You probably heard the news story that Wal-Mart has been feeding messages to selected bloggers to help repair the corporation's public relations blues referred to above. The news caused quite a hubbub. Sure, it's no secret that big business has jumped on the blogosphere (eww, sorry for using that term) to funnel marketing messages semi-virally, but these blog-targeted "press releases" were being posted word-for-word by the blogger in question and others without crediting the source.

Even the government calls on bloggers to do their dirty work. I found this example in the same issue of Adbusters, in a piece written by Olive Dempsey:

"From 2003 to 2005, Republican blogger Jeff Guckert acted as a plant at White House briefings, using official press credentials under the alias Jeff Gannon. The President and other officials relied on Guckert as an escape hatch. When real reporters were pressing them, they'd turn to Guckert who would dutifully turn down the heat by offering softball questions."

I used to think bloggers were above selling out. I thought they were a maverick crew who took pride in the fact that they were beholding to nothing outside of their own egos. Then one day in a meeting at work when I shared that opinion, a person who I consider to be an online guru blandly announced that bloggers would sell their souls to the devil for some free goodies. I was taken aback, but it's evidently true. After all, bloggers no longer represent a certain breed of person--especially now that the phenomenon of Myspace, etc. has everyone and their pilates instructor posting every personal detail from the name of their current place of employment to lo-res midriff shots.

I've been a blogger since before the term even existed (circa 2000). Witnessing all this makes me feel like a wizened veteran, shaking my fists at these upstarts. They're turning the blog world into a grimy jacuzzi of opportunists looking to hook-up with dates or get in bed with corporate America. And all I can do about it is post a rant in my corner of the blogosp...internet.

Saliste de Guatemala y te metiste en Guatapeor.*

In entertainment news, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Annie Proulx is bitching about Brokeback Mountain not winning Best Picture (previous Proulx link found via Trent).

Here is a quote from the author describing the members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences:

"Roughly 6,000 film industry voters, most in the Los Angeles area, many living cloistered lives behind wrought-iron gates or in deluxe rest-homes, out of touch not only with the shifting larger culture and the yeasty ferment that is America these days, but also out of touch with their own segregated city, decide which films are good."

M'kay. I can understand some bitterness if the film that you begat via short story wasn't acknowledged at all in a major awards ceremony, but it did get eight total nominations and even won some important ones like Best Adapted Screenplay and Best Director. Sooooo, if you want to call the Academy members out of touch with the yeasty ferment, that means that their acknowledgement of your film in those other categories is just as misguided as their annointment of Crash as Best Picture. Baby. Bath water.

Linking fun:

Celebrity sighting: George Clooney's cousin (I didn't know that!), actor Miguel Ferrer. He's been in everything, but I remember him best for his hilarious role in Twin Peaks as a tough-talking investigator.

Reading recommendation: I had the pleasure of seeing Jonathan Ames do a reading from one of his books and he is delightfully depraved in an ever so charming way. I just got his book of personal essays entitled What's Not to Love? and the title fits ever so well.

Internet humor tip: the reliably funny Tremble shares a wry explanation of how he can tell when his penpals are responding to his e-mails from their BlackBerry devices.

*The subject line doesn't have anything to do with this entry. I was just doing some research on Spanish proverbs today and really enjoyed this one. Translation: "You left Gaute-bad and went to Guate-worse."

Manifesto rhymes with mango, I'll have one of each

Today I decided I should compose a manifesto directing the rest of my life. Then I made a mental note to myself (to steal a joke from Pablo) to look that word up later to make sure it meant what I thought it meant. And it did. To quote Dictionary.com: "A public declaration of principles, policies, or intentions."

That should keep me busy for awhile. In the meantime, you may amuse yourselves with this interesting observation by Andrew about how the Hollywood movie industry takes a pendulum swing back and forth between moralism and escapism on a regular basis. This year's Best Picture line-up was definitely in the moralistic vein, almost to an after-school-special degree.

Then, for more light-hearted fare, you can check out the "live action The Simpsons" intro. It's jarring to see real people so perfectly imitating what Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie have been doing all these years, but cool, too. (Found via Adam).

Chloe moley

So, as those of you who care already know, Chloe, in a Crash-like upset, was the winner of Project Runway. The similarities to the Oscar outcome are eerie. A dark horse winner with a story of racial prejudice hijacks the show from an alternate lifestyle duo.

I would blame the casting couch, but she doesn't seem like that type of girl.



Or maybe I should blame the couch after all, since that's what her collection looked like.



Santino called it first.

FourFour's short and sweet reaction to the winner announcement said best.

As long as it wasn't Daniel is right. I think the figure 8 purse that that smug little mofo was so proud of says it all for me.



My favorite part of the finale was when Daniel gave Tim his panicked announcement that the hideous handbags had gone missing pre-show. I burst out laughing when Tim gave this Yoda-like reaction.

And, of course, there's no one like the awe-inspiring FourFour to send season two off with the best sound clips and sound-minded quips. Here is his farewell post.

Oh, Santino. You didn't need Klum, Messing, Garcia and Kors to know you're a winner. Like the Tinman of Oz fame, you had it inside you all along.

Lighten up, it's just passion

When did I first fall for you, Santino? How does one retrace the steps to infatuation's first footfall?



Was it when you gave your own skin for fashion in the form of your cherished leather jacket in your bitchin' "clothes off your back" design? (Still my favorite outfit from the show,although Andrae's gutter water dress was a close second.) Perhaps that was the first blush of affection. But, alas, your haughty spirit served as a barrier to keep my heart safely out of my throat at that point.

Was it when you started doing dead-on impressions of Tim Gunn? I must admit, I'm a sucker for a cut-up. The permafrost on my ventricles began to show signs of condensation with every "What happened to Andrae?". By the time you got into the Red Lobster diaries, I knew my corazon was usted's.

And then, and then, as if I could feel any more devotion to a reality show contestant, you became my true north in the reunion episode. Oh, to have shared a Venice bench at sunset with you as Tim was lucky enough to have done.



You siphoned off part of my soul with your tender admissions of being a vulnerable man under the arrogant genius. You beguiled my softer side when you frolicked with your best friend's adorable kids.

And then your finale collection. Could it have been more exquisite? No, Santino, no. It couldn't have been more exquisite.



It was at this point I confessed to my Project Runway confidant/homie that you had become my official gay boyfriend. Imagine my surprise when I found out that that was only half the story. Bi god, I do have a shot in hell.

So, Santino, m'love, I realize that I'm only one small voice in the growing mob of fans that now throw rose petals in your path, but I'm willing to be that one small voice. As I write this, the fate of the final three has yet to be broadcast. I felt this would be my moment to confess my affections. That way, if you win, you will know I'm not just here for the good times, the $100,000 in seed money to help you launch your own line, the 2007 Saturn SkyRoadster, the spread in ELLE and especially not the mentorship from the Banana Republic Design Team.

Good night, and good luck, you handsome steed, you.

***

Thanks to the amazingly talented FourFour for his brilliant Project Runway recaps and for making all the show clips and sound bites linkable for us more Luddite types. You are my alternate true north.

It's Hard Out Here for a Geisha

Despite all efforts of the current administration, America is still the land of dreams. You need proof? Who ever thought that a young, mulleted man taking a bit role among young, mulleted females would go on to become a Hollywood triple (quadruple?) threat and political pot-stirring playboy? Not Jo, Blair, Natalie or Tootie, that's for damn sure. So, George baby took home Best Supporting Actor for Syriana. He did a decent job in the role, but something tells me he got the award as a reward for his weight gain and head injury. Hollywood types are in awe of anyone who will diminish their attractiveness for a role (e.g., Nicole Kidman in The Hours, Charlize Theron in Monster), so that probably had as much to do with Clooney's win as oil had to do with the invasion of Iraq (a.k.a. a lot). Still, I think George deserved some kind of award for his admirable work creating the polished and wise Good Night, and Good Luck. It's pretty much understood that the engraving on the award doesn't necessarily match why it was really given.

I count myself among the "Jon Stewart did a good job as M.C." contingent. He slipped in some of his political acidity, but it went down smoothly. The only wide-sweeping cringe I noticed was after his joke about Walk the Line being Ray with white people. Not working at the top of his intelligence right there, but most of his other quips were excellent (as per usual). Love him so much.

As far as corny Oscar humor, I actually enjoyed Ben Stiller's green screen gag. He had no shame in his antics and shamelessness can be ever so endearing.

Other highlights for me would include the quick cut to J-Lo giggling in the audience at the stage antics of Three 6 Mafia. Homegirl must've been having happy flashbacks to high-speed pursuits through Manhattan with P. Diddy at the wheel and a gat in the glovebox. I would've liked to see a camera cut to J-Lo when Jennifer Garner tripped on her dress. Luckily, J-Ga's heavy-handed bronzer covered any natural blush her misstep might've caused. My favorite mistake was when Ang Lee went all plural on our asses and said, "...gay mens and women." Or was it not a flub at all? Could Ang be that down?

Other clips from the catty department: low-cut dresses + lack of cleavage = crazy unattractive. I guess it's all fierce and shit that Felicity Huffman would bear her ribcage to the world, but she was looking a bit too Oscar-statuesque to me. Better to work the face, hon. You got a pretty one.

And what's up with the washed-out color palette of Naomi Watts and Nicole Kidman? You Aussie gals are pale and skinny enough as it is. You're one step away from disappearing, yo. Next stop: translucence. Anticipated upcoming role: dark matter. My favorite dress design was J-Lo's, although I did not enjoy the dried lawn trimmings shade of green it came in. J-Leprechaun? Nu-uh. Apropos of nothing, is there anyone cooler than Catherine Keener? I don't think so either.

Reese Dub, who I must mention (again) I once spotted in a Whole Foods grocery store looking eerily luminous with baby in tow, gave a sweet speech (although there were suspicious shades of Tracy Flick in it). I still can't bring myself to sit through Walk the Line, but from what I've heard she rocked the mic. Joaquin looked bloated and bitter, so I don't feel bad that his Johnny didn't cash in for him. An even cuter speech giver than Reese? Steve Box of Wallace and Gromit fame. (I still feel badly I didn't give that sweetly satisfying film a nod in my honorable mentions of 2005 list.)

Even though some are whining that Brokeback didn't get the big win because society is still too homophobic, that accusation doesn't really hold water for moi. As Jonny M pointed out, it'd be tough to find a gayer town on the spinning globe than Los Angeles. So maybe, just maybe, it's because it really wasn't the best picture of the year? Could be. OK, so, was Crash a better film? In my personal opinion, yes. Not by an astounding margin, but I remember being semi-rocked to my core (shout-out to Moana) by its blistering examination of racism in sunny L.A. As I've already mentioned ad nictaseum, Brokeback bored me tearless with its soap opera shorthand and long-windedness. Crash did belabor its point(s) and owed a lot to previous films (e.g., Magnolia--even Crash's nominated song was pretty Aimee Mannish). Maybe part of the reason it got the most votes was that entertainment industry types recognized themselves in the Terrence Howard and Sandra Bullock storylines. In the final analysis, though, Crash was smarter than Brokeback. The dialogue was sharp. Even though the cast's screen time was subdivided by the ensemble storytelling, Crash's characters were more fully realized and believable than Brokeback's secondary characters (i.e., all the women). Most importantly, the mirror Crash holds up to society couldn't be more timely (considering the economic/race divide shredding America and the ideological divide severing the world).

Perhaps the most touching thing about Crash winning Best Picture is that Ryan Phillipe can now get his balls out of hock. The boy almost achieved Reese levels of luminosity when he hurtled out of his seat at that award's announcement. He will no longer have to wither in the shadow of her silver spoon. Good on him. And good on my friend who was in Crash, too. You're Oscar-adjacent, young lady.

Oscar matters

The last time I was really excited about the Academy Awards was when Daniel Day-Lewis was up for Best Actor in My Left Foot. I screamed with joy when he won. The year was 1989. Since then, it's been more about critiquing the fashion and anticipating adlibbed stage antics than the awards themselves. I've become resigned to the fact that the kind of films I like are rarely Oscar bait.

Even though Brokeback Mountain seems to have insurmountable publicity momentum, my fingers are crossed for Crash to win Best Picture (mostly because of my wonderful friend who gave a wonderful performance in it).

It just occured to me this week (duh!) that almost all of this year's nominees take on hot topic social issues in their subject matter. Crash: racial prejudice. Brokeback Mountain: homophobia. Munich: terrorism. Good Night, and Good Luck: journalistic responsibility, censorship and the abuse of federal power. As far as Capote, I guess you could really stretch it to say it shines a light on the American justice system or on senseless crime--but it's mostly about a self-centered writer with a really quirky voice.

If it was up to me, I'd downgrade Capote to the acting categories only and replace it with The Constant Gardener in the Best Picture category. It was a muuuuuuuch better film than Capote for a ton of reasons. The Constant Gardener also would've been a fitting bookend for the message movie collection of the 78th annual awards ceremony with its frightening tale of pharmaceutical industry mercenaries using the impoverished as lab rats.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that celebrating socially conscious entertainment makes all of us winners. See you on the red carpet. My gown will be designed by Santino Rice.

One week you're in, the next you're out

In the March 2006 issue of Harper's Magazine, senior editor Bill Wasik finally shares the tale of his social experiment nicknamed the "flash mob" phenomenon. The magazine is posting segments of the article over the next few weeks on its web site, but you can read the piece in its entirety in the newsstand edition.

It's extremely well-written and often funny, while offering an eye-opening view into what motivates hipsters and those who market to them. Here is a link to part one of the online version.

An excerpt:
"Not only was the flash mob a vacuous fad; it was, in its very form (pointless aggregation and then dispersal), intended as a metaphor for the hollow hipster culture that spawned it.

"My association with the fad has heretofore remained semi-anonymous, on a first-name-only basis to all but friends and acquaintances. For more than two years, I concealed my identity for scientific purposes, but now that my experiment is essentially complete, corporate America having fulfilled (albeit a year later than expected) its final phase, I finally feel compelled to offer a report: on the flash mob, its life and times, and its consummation this summer in the clutches of the Ford Motor Company."