Happy Birthday, Mr. Bartender

New York's oldest bartender turns 90

My favorite news story of the day was about a now teetotaling bartender employed at the Algonquin Hotel who served Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Dean Martin and Bob Hope during his long career. His most star-studded gig was at a Chinese restaurant called Freeman Chum (which sounds like a name out of The Simpsons, if you ask me). With daily 5:30 a.m. walks and long solo shifts on his feet, he sounds as hardy as he is charming.

Quote from the article linked above:

"His proudest moment came in 1961 when he mixed a drink for the Duke of Windsor. 'He said he wanted a House of Lords martini in and out on toast.'

The wait captain was prepared to send Wong into the kitchen for a piece of toast, but Wong knew the duke wanted a martini with a lemon twist ignited with a match.

'After he drink, he liked it,' he said. 'And he had a second one.'"

Can you do the fandango?

Some clever first lines from novels excerpted from this 100 Best First Lines list.

"The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new."
—Samuel Beckett, Murphy

"Once an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard. 'Stop!' cried the groaning old man at last, 'Stop! I did not drag my father beyond this tree.'"
—Gertrude Stein, The Making of Americans

"He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad."
—Raphael Sabatini, Scaramouche

Pull the weeds, do the wave

From the "Great Movies You Probably Never Saw" file: The Constant Gardener. I didn't go too deep into the archives to dust off this gem, but I'm guessing a lot of people skipped this in its theater run with plans to rent it later. So rent it, like, nowish. Why, you ask?

To quote myself: "I absolutely loved it. For starters, the acting was top shelf. Fiennes was very affecting as a sympathetic soul bent by grimacing primness. Rachel Weisz was, to borrow the well-worn description, a revelation (I feel so badly for thinking she was just another pretty face all these years). It was also great to see Danny Huston (one of the few bright spots in Birth) give a very nicely shaded performance. The writing was also solid, except for one achingly awful line that could have been plucked from a Lifetime movie: "Tessa was my home." Oh, good gaaawwwd.) Adding to the pleasure and power was Fernando Meirelle's passionate direction--visually vivid and full of thoughtfully framed yet frantic fury. There were shots that actually made me draw a sharp breath. It's obvious that his previous film, the amazing City of God, was no fluke. As he did in CoG, Meirelle's dug into the culture of the impoverished and panned out heartwrenching gold. In this film, he didn't/couldn't dig as deep, but the snapshots he included feel sharp and sure."

***

From the music files:

In the last five days, I've seen live music three times. I think that's an admirable pace. There's just something about a live concert that is impossible to replicate via other art forms. So who'd I see? First off, it was Sia in a show at an automotive museum, of all places. My friend K-girl got us on the list, thanks to knowing a band member. Then I saw Inara George and friends do a tribute to Woody Guthrie at a rustic outdoor theater. Then I saw Sia again at the Hollywood Bowl, as she performed with Zero 7. Also on the bill: The Gotan Project and Jose Gonzales. All good stuff.

Speaking of music, I recently read my account profile on Ticketmaster and realized I've compiled quite an eclectic list over the past couple of years: Beck, Rick Springfield, Joseph Arthur, The Pixies and Olivia Newton-John. Next up: Paul Simon and Woody Allen. Not together, unfortunately.

I hope it goes without saying that Rick and ONJ were chosen on the basis of nostaglia alone. Adding to the flashback is the fact that when I left for college, my entire album collection was made up of LPs by those two artists. Luckily, I've expanded my musical tastes since then. I figure Beck, Joseph Arthur and The Pixies balance out my other choices to maintain some modicum of street cred. Whew.

To conclude my musical ramblings, I would like to recommend the latest release from Gomez entitled How We Operate. I remember Malice called this one early and she has quite the knowledgeable ear. The title song is my current #1 hit. While the band has become more commercial in its sound since my buddy Andre first loaned me their album Bring it On, their music still has a sustained yearning underneath that sucks one in. And when they do go pop, it's as sharp as a bitch slap.

Postscript: I need to give credit where credit is due. My music guru buddy Dave deserves credit for calling Gomez's album a winner even before Ms. Malice did. I like to correct mistakes when I can. That's how I operate.

The non-lion Aslan is just as impressive

I have to thank Jon Stewart for introducing me to my new crush: religious scholar/news analyst Reza Aslan. After hearing him discuss the complex web that is the Middle East at this moment in time, I wanted to applaud. His take on the multi-faceted mess was logical, practical and slightly hopeful. The world could use more Rezas. If you want to see his interview on The Daily Show, here is Part 1 and Part 2.

On a lighter note, I really enjoyed Stephen Colbert's "teaser" line in his The Colbert Report show intro on Monday night:

“Can being a Nielsen Family kill you? Watch the entire show to find out.”

What's on your TV?

M'lady Malice made a delightful premiere on the Food Network's Ace of Cakes last week, I must say. It was tres trippy to be watching my online blogpal come to life on my TV screen. What the heck? As she might say, it was ricockulously surreal. It is a fun show, though, and full of likeable sorts and amazing cake concoctions, so check it out Thursdays at 10:30 p.m. or Saturdays at 10:00 and 10:30 p.m. Word has it the fourth episode's a doozy, so don't miss out.

Speaking of reality shows, this season's Project Runway is very, very boring. Don't get me wrong, I still watch. There is something about the familiar formula and forboding runway judgement music that is very hard to resist, despite the lack of colorful characters this year. It's just not the same without Santino, Andrae and Nick to kick around.

In other TV news, I have it from an inside source that CBS's new series starring Ray Liotta is going to be one to watch. It's called Smith. Who couldn't use a lot more Liotta? Hubba to the hubba, he don't stop.

Fast track

The first nationwide commercial I've ever worked on will air this weekend on the "Teen Choice Awards." Ooooh, my! I wonder if Justin Timberlake will see it on the backstage monitor while he sips a brewski. Here's hoping. Not that I'm into Justin Timberlake. Not that I even understand why he's so popular. But I have to grudgingly admit to him having serious pop culture juice.

I saw Talladega Nights mid-week. There's something so ditching-school-cool about seeing a movie on a weeknight, but the movie was a disappointment. Too much race track action, not enough funny. Sacha Baron Cohen, who I love as Ali G. and co., was painfully off-target and stiff as Ricky Bobby's odd French-ish nemesis. Will Farrell felt scripted most of the time, which is bad news since his real magic comes in improvising outside the lines of predictable sit-com jokes. One nice surprise was John C. Reilly's comic chops. He was a pure delight throughout. The hilarious family dinner scene and the over-the-credits outtakes were brilliant. That leaves a couple of hours unaccounted for.

Speaking of improvising, I had an impromptu improv class this week and got to play a character who overuses acronyms in conversation. I surprised myself with how many I squeezed in: TGIF, VIP, DOA, TLC and AARP.

This weekend I plan to stare at my nephew and eat egg salad with mi compadre C-girl. A winning combo.

Pax out.

Colbert your grievances

Malice, of upcoming Ace of Cakes fame, shared this fun web page that lets you create your own Colbert "On Notice" board and save it as a jpeg. Pretty nifty. As you see, it helped me air my grievances.

I had a farm in Africa

I didn't see any movies this weekend, as I was staring at the cuteness that is my new nephew for hours on end. I would alternate that with oogling the slim, tanned bodies of male pro beach volleyball players on my brother-in-law's crazy-wide-screen TV. Beautiful young men, wherever I looked. What's a girl to do?

Before I got all auntified, I went out with some girlfriends for dinner and dancing and had a gay olde time. The curious part of the evening was that for convenience's sake only, we had chosen a local bar I used to frequent during my prime going-out nights. The bar had always had good mojo for me, when it came to getting my flirt on. Most famously, it was the spot where I kissed a total (and totally cute) stranger while under the influence of cranberry and vodka--not to mention under an assumed name.

I returned to the bar thinking too much time had passed for it to still get my groove on, but I was wrong. A few steps within the door, an inebriated young man tried to snog me after telling me his sixth sense had predicted he'd meet me that very night. I dodged him handily, although I appreciated his M. Night storytelling chops. Later, another young fellow approached me on the dance floor. As we boogied on down, I noticed he spoke with an accent.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Guess," he taunted.

"Um, Jamaica?"

He shook his head slowly in dismay.

"Haiti?"

Once again, the slow dismay shake. Then he spoke.

"You Americans are so ignorant. So ignorant about geography," he sighed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's not your fault. It's the system."

I really couldn't argue with him. Americans are kind of belly-button-centric, as a rule. When he finally told me he was from West Africa, I pressed him to name the country. I just wanted to show him I knew enough geography to know there are countries in Africa. See?! I know a little. Hmpf.

As the evening ended, a young Pakistani lad tried to pry my number out of me. Even though I told him he wasn't age appropriate, he went off on a cheerful rant about how we could teach each other things. Once he had exausted me with tales of his love for accounting and hard core music, I started talking to a college football dude. He was all over my jock, too, until a local drug dealer walked by mentioning something about having lines. Then football dude did an end run after the pusher and I shook my head in disbelief. Yep, the old stomping grounds still had it. And, evidently, so did I. My ego felt nicely massaged as I ferried my still-flirting girlfriend homeward, wrestling her away from an executive chef with an untucked shirt and a cosmopolitan accent. Quite a night out for an auntie, I tell you what.

***

I thnk I'm getting closer to my 15 minutes of fame, now that my favorite bloggirl Malice is going to appear on a reality show based on the bakery where she works. Now that just takes the cake, don't it?

Pooper scooper and super duper

In movie news:
Scoop sucked. That's my opinion, even though I love Woody and entered the multiplex with low expectations. Watching the lameness made me feel sorry for the Woodman. It's like he's become one of those old men at the community center who tell the same stories over and over. While Hugh Jackman did a decent Rupert Everett impression and Woody and Scarlett's warm affection for each other is sweet, the story was slim and the jokes even thinner. I'm hoping Woody can make it up to me when I go hear his New Orleans jazz band play in December. I never made it to Michael's in Manhattan to see his Monday night residency, but this will be the next best thing.

In personal news:
I became an aunt for the first time, which is one of the most amazingly cool and mind-blowing things to ever happen to me. And I helped deliver my nephew, which made it even more intense. Oh, no, I wasn't in the catching position. I just helped my sister push by making like a yoga instructor.

Since I can't even watch ER without getting queasy, I didn't know if I could make it through the all-night process. But it all worked out well and I'm currently obsessed with the tot. I can't believe my little sister made a little person. And I can't believe how traumatic the birthing process is on baby and mom. Contortions all around. I have a new admiration for mothers. And a new comradeship with my fellow aunts. And a new competitiveness with anyone who questions his status as cutest baby ever.

Little. Yellow. Different.

Like the line in Woody Allen's film Celebrity says, you can tell a lot about a society by looking at what it celebrates. In the U.S., circa now, that'd be wealth, power and beauty. The film Little Miss Sunshine is about a family that lacks all three, but they're all the more likeable for it. Directed by Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris and written by Michael Arndt, this smart, warm-hearted movie follows the dysfunctional bunch on a haphazard road trip leading to a kiddie beauty pageant. While the story touches on a multitude of "issues"--from suicide to body image--it does so without being dragged down in the attempt.

The acting is terrific across the board with Greg Kinnear, Toni Collette, Alan Arkin, Steve Carell and Paul Dano each getting a moment or two to shine, but the real stand-out in the crew is Abigail Breslin as Olive. She is remarkably believable and incredibly charming as a little girl who dreams of pageant stardom in the most sweet-hearted of ways--plus, she delivers the funniest line in the movie like a seasoned pro.

The film's a crowd-pleaser, sure, but a very well-made one. And that doesn't diminish the fact that obvious care was taken to tell the story of these "losers" with real compassion. Who couldn't use a little more of that?

Grapes of wrath

He was right out of a Dorothea Lange depression era photograph. All sad shades of gray under a coat of dust, made even darker by the shadows of night. Bent over his big, black duffle bag on the strip mall sidewalk, he was carefully stitching up a gaping hole in the bag's fabric. My first instinct sent me off the sidewalk and around him at a safe distance. It was instantly obvious he was homeless. I felt a little twinge of guilt taking such a wide berth, but a lot of vagrants (thanks in part to the Reagan administration's public service cuts) are mentally ill and unable to find care. I told myself, it's always better to be overly cautious.

As I stepped into the burrito joint to place my dinner order, I thought about the street-livin' soul outside and wondered how often he noticed people heading the other way when he was in their path. I thought about the old story from my church school days about how the humblest among us should be treated like the holy trinity's only son. I ordered him a chicken taco.

Walking out with my order in a paper sack, I approached him from behind. His head was still bowed over his stitching work.

"Excuse me, would you like a chicken taco?" I began, as two Starbucks customers walked by us--me, the office girl still in her work clothes; he, the down-on-his-luck "untouchable."

The homeless man looked up at me. His slightly handsome, weather-worn face was almost empty of expression. His stitching hands froze in space.

"Where'd you get it?" he asked suspiciously. I thought: possible paranoid schizophrenic?

"Over there at that restaurant," I replied, pointing--trying to be cool like Fonzie.

"Who gave it to you?" he queried, as if suspecting it had been air-dropped by the ominous black helicopters of a secret government organization.

"Um, I bought it. I saw you on my way in and thought you might be hungry."

He looked a me a second longer, then dropped his head resolutely and continued his patching.

"No, thanks," he said, voice monotone. "I'm not that hungry right now."

"OK. Have a good night," I said, walking away. I felt a little funky about it--wondering if he'd taken some kind of offense, or if he actually thought I might give him tainted food--but at least I had tried.

As I started to unlock my car I heard someone say, "Good thought." I almost ignored it, but then looked up. The two Starbucks dudes who had walked by during the exchange were standing by their pick-up truck across the parking lot row, looking over at me--almost curiously.

"It was a good thought," the one in a baseball hat said to me in a sincere tone--almost consoling in a quiet, resigned way.

"Oh!" I answered, startled--my heart leaping a little in appreciation. "Thank you! Goodnight."

I got in my car, set down my burrito bag, and started to cry.

Steinfeld Loves Chachi, but who doesn't?

Colbert heir apparent?

The Daily Show correspondent Jason Jones is showing some Stephen-esque stoicism in this clip that reveals the good hands people have a bad attitude.

Mel in charge

Did anyone ever think that maybe Mel's Malibu meltdown was caused by flashbacks from his erstwhile law enforcement career?

Gloss and floss

Idlewild, the upcoming musical starring the Outkast boys, looks like a heckuva lot of fun. Think Moulin Rouge in a speakeasy. Elaborate costumes, anachronistic tunes, starry-eyed casting, all served with a side order of panache.

***

While waiting for my doctor's appointment today, I got to hear the interoffice talk about an employee who'd stayed home with a cold. In this medical building, it was bigger news than Mel's meltdown. "Did you talk to Lily? She is soooo sick. Oh my god, you could hear it in her voice. I told her not to come to work. She is sooooooo sick. Poor thing. I hope her baby doesn't catch it."

The thought of a germ spreading within a family reminded me of the film The Secret Lives of Dentists. One segment deals with the slow, but steady collapse of a four-member nuclear family due to a flu bug moving through their systems. It serves as a queasy metaphor for the emotional sickness spreading between them. All of this led me to begin a (possibly) continuing series entitled "Great Movies You Probably Never Saw."

The Secrets Lives of Dentists is definitely worth a rental on DVD. Along the lines of The Squid and the Whale, it eloquenty, realistically, captures the language and emotions of family dysfunction in modern-day, middle-class America. Campbell Scott and Hope Davis give tremendous performances and Denis Leary provides some refreshing comic relief as an "invisible" alter ego. Director Alan Rudolph handily avoids the schmaltz and screenwriter Craig Lucas keeps it real.

As Ann Hornaday of the Washington Post describes it:

"The Secret Lives of Dentists is that most extraordinary of achievements, the small, quiet movie that imperceptibly takes its viewers by their throats and doesn't let go..."

So make an appointment to see it soon! (No, I did-n't.)