Nerd Rage

We raced out to see "the Facebook movie" this afternoon. I walked away with bad feelings.

There's only three kinds of women in this movie: sluts, bitches, and lawyers. Yes, it bothers me. Yes, I am that kind of feminist who sees misogyny smeared around everywhere. Yes, I wonder what goes on the heads of writer Andrew Sorkin and director David Fincher. Yes, I'm sitting there steaming, whispering heatedly into my husband's ear. He knows it's coming. He knows I'm composing this in my head as I sit there.

I don't think the lawyers balance out the sluts and bitches. And I'll say, every man in this movie is pretty much an asshole, but they are the protagonists. I'm not looking for heroic female role models here, just a real person. Just a movie where I don't walk away wondering why certain directors seem to relish punishing women. (David Fincher is working on "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo". Murder. Rape. Torture.)

And I'm thinking about Nerd Rage.

The WHOLE motivation for creation of Facebook (and Napster) is the bitterness of the nerd boys rejected by pretty girls, as the movie tells it. In the opening scene, Mark Zuckerberg drives his girlfriend away with a conversation that goes downhill so precipitously, it's clear he's cut the brake lines to the things he shouldn't say. Why does she need to leave to study, he mocks, she only goes to BU. Not the almighty Harvard, as he does. He belittles and patronizes her until she breaks up with him. (A mark of the true friendless nerd is an inability to refrain from saying things that are true AND hurtful. If it's true, why shouldn't you say it?) So he runs home and writes nasty things about her on his blog, then creates a site for students at Harvard to rate girls against each other. So you see he really knows how to score with the ladies. And he's bitterly jealous of his only friend being invited to pledge one of the snooty exclusive clubs for cool kids. More Nerd Rage.

The Napster guy confesses he was motivated by trying to impress a girl who was more into a lacrosse player. But he's played by Justin Timberlake, (doing a very convincing full-on doucebag) so it's a little harder to imagine him batting zero.

Zuckerberg uses his programming talent and ruthless ambition to create a format for people to communicate with the world, and check each other out at a distance, perfect for the socially awkward. The film ends with him alone, sending a friend request to the girl who was smart enough to walk away from his anger, obsessively refreshing the page waiting for her to respond.

How many of these Silicon Valley dudes are motivated by Nerd Rage? I guess in a different kind of movie, they fall into a vat of radioactive acid and turn into supervillains.

time travel will tear us apart

Michael and I stayed up Wednesday night watching "The Time Traveler's Wife". (Yes, I read the book and enjoyed most of it, but I have a problem with being blindsided by amputations in movies and novels. Maybe it's just me but I find this quite off-putting, and I can think of four other movies/novels where this happens to male lead. And yes, on Dr Who, but he can grow a new hand. Anyway, amputation was written out of "TTTW" film, thank you.)

But the real highlight of this morose romance is the WORST wedding song in the world. Very expedient to continue to foreshadow tragic ending with first-dance funeral dirge - Broken Social Scene moaning their way through "Love WIll Tear Us Apart".

I admit it, I wanted that "The Notebook" romantic sugar rush, and "The Time Traveler's Wife" does not deliver. (I found a funny mock trailer on You Tube using the audio from the "TTTW" trailer with visuals from Dr Who featuring The Doctor and Rose. Which of course I find to be a much more romantic, convincing, and heartbreaking doomed time-travel romance.) Kudos on the art direction and costuming, though. Like Anthropologie with the color-contrast turned way down.

Where time stops and the magic never ends.

Today in Folding Laundry Theater, a special gift from the gods, as it were, AND it was actually on at 4:30. XANADU, from 1980, starring Olivia Newton-John, Michael Beck, and Gene Kelly.

To summarize, Olivia plays "Kira", a magical sprite in legwarmers, be-ribboned barrettes, and occasionally roller skates, who descends from a mural at the end of a alley in Santa Monica to inspire the dreams of Sonny, played by Michael Beck (perfect feathered hair). She's a muse (and daughter of Zeus), and therefore not meant to fall in love and stick around on Earth. He's employed by a record company to paint the giant blow-ups of album covers to hang outside Tower (there seems to be an entire staff of artists thus employed). Apparently his dream is to team up with Danny McGuire (GENE KELLY) to open up a fantastic nightclub. Called Xanadu. "Kira" is really Terpsichore, the muse of dance, which I guess makes sense because people will be dancing at a nightclub? Don't think about it too hard.

Did I mention much of the music is by E.L.O.? You put together E.L.O. and Olivia Newton-John and you have some deliciously cheesy and delightfully magical songs. Like "Magic". The soundtrack actually did better than the film, with a double platinum album and five hit singles. Yes, I checked Wikipedia.

Also thrilling are special effects simulating neon lights, outlining Kira and others as they zip off to Mount Olympus (or where ever), which seem to me now to be a direct precursor to the visual style of "Tron".

This might be my favorite bad movie ever. It's a musical, it's got Gene Kelly, E.L.O., O. N.-J., neon, art deco, legwarmers, rollerskates, animation, dream sequences. I just don't know what more this girl could ask for. It has just the right touch of absolute lunacy, and yet an air of innocence. I mean, nobody ever really bought O.N.-J. as the bad girl, right?

Other random things that are awesome about Xanadu-

• The Tubes appear in a fantasy musical sequence (aren't they all). Remember the Tubes?
• Olivia Newton-John gets to dance with Gene Kelly, damn her.
• Sony and Kira turn into goldfish and songbirds in a romantic animated sequence by Don Bluth.
• Gene Kelly has a fashion montage as Sonny and Kira help him pick out an outfit with enough "glitz" for the big nightclub opening. Set to "All Over the World", one of the best, most roller-disco-iest E.L.O. songs. And he dances inside a giant pinball machine.
• O. N.-J. has five costume changes in the final musical number, from 1930's satin tap pants, to tiger-striped lame', to fringed jacket and cowboy hat, to outer-space disco goddess, to off the shoulder silk with leg warmers.

I think this movie must be among required viewing for designers and staff at American Apparel. Sonny even wears a hoodie with white drawstring and white zipper. Looks like he bought it yesterday. Or tomorrow. And lots of bodysuits. And legwarmers.

"Xanadu" title song

original trailer

today's 2:45 movie

You know, I sit (sleep) through MANY kid movies. "Cats and Dogs: The Revenge of Kitty Galore" is undoubtedly one of the WORST. With the WORST voice acting. I think it was LITERALLY phoned in from home, or possibly even a car, as the (second-string) actors read the text off of a mobile device. You might think, as I did, that Nick Nolte as the voice of a giant Anatolian Shepherd (I just saw one at the dog park) might be somewhat amusing. It's not.

But why do you even care, you say, why get so worked up? I honestly don't why I'm so worked up about the shittyness of the movie, since I really did sleep through a good one-third of it. This one pissed me off. "Beverly Hills Chihuahua" was delightful and life-enriching compared to "C and D". I'm sorry. I don't usually spew like this.

And enough with the 3-D already. But I know it's not going away.

It was funny for a dog to say "Let's cut to the chase." I'll admit that.

design love

Google has used a Josef Frank design for their logo today in honor of the 125th anniversary of his birth. {Isn't it really a masthead?} I became aware of this amazing designer when Michael and I spent a vacation in Stockholm and Helsinki. Not first (and or second) on everybody's list of European cities to visit, but I'm part Finnish and my mother has trained me to obsess on things Scandinavian.

Down the street from our hotel was a design/furniture/home store called Svensk Tenn. There was some of the most stunning fabric I'd ever seen. Bold, bright colors in amazing combinations, amorphous plants and amoeba-blobby shapes. Does just looking at something amazing give you a short-of-breath tingly rush? Do you daydream about it?

It was so expensive. I couldn't even let myself buy a pre-cut remnant, it wasn't discounted at all. We bought a set of plasticated placemats with his "Manhattan" pattern.

I visit his designs now and then online. There's some amazing furniture pieces also. And wallpaper in may of the fabric prints. Anthropologie sold a wingback chair and dining chairs upholstered with his designs.

My imaginary perfect kitchen remodel has black slate, cherry wood, and Josef Frank curtains.

And now Svensk Tenn has Joseph Frank handbags! And my birthday's coming up. I don't even want to check the exchange rate, do I. I just did. It's not that bad, really. I wonder if anyone carries them in New York. Hint, hint.

maiden!

So, yes, for the price of free, Michael and I thought it would be fun to see Iron Maiden at the Garden. We are talking about a classic band here. Did we go just to say we did? Okay, there's some of that. I think I'm drifting into midlife-crisis territory here, and I would like to consider myself still a person who will rock out now and then, rather than fall asleep on the couch catching up on whatever HBO is serving up.

Having partied with the burnouts during high school in the mid 80s, I consider myself, shall we say, "sympathetic" to metal. Not really a huge fan, but I always felt like I "get it". I've spent a few lost afternoons and evenings watching Alice Cooper concerts on video. And "Spinal Tap". I can hardly begin to describe how fun it was to watch "Spinal Tap" with a bunch of actual teenage metalheads who LOVED the music and wanted to know does the band still tour, and did say these exact words "I know it's supposed to be funny, but it's really good." Moments to savor for a lifetime. I'm doing it right now.

The audience ranged from old dudes in black t-shirts to younger dudes in black t-shirts, and one confident gentleman loitering about in a kilt and black t-shirt. He looked like he knew his way around a Highland Games.

The Iron Maiden show was, well, fine. We had our earplugs to take the edge off (they've taken enough abuse already). A highlight was the tribute to recently departed Ronnie James Dio, who is credited with the creation of the "devil horns" salute. Bruce Dickinson said, "You will never catch me doing this at a concert, except right now, for Ronnie." So we all gave the salute to Ronnie in heaven. Also, the band seems to have missed the memo on not smiling onstage, they seemed genuinely grateful to the fans, and appreciative of the loyalty. And please buy the new CD.

Because we are old, we skipped out early and caught the 10:30 train home.

my Hopper

Here's my imaginary Edward Hopper. The text on the left side reads, "HOW MANY HOPPERS DO YOU NEED". We went to an exhibit a few years ago, and were surprised to learn that the original "Captain Upton's House" is "From the collection of Steve Martin". Ours cost five dollars. "SK" sold paintings at rock shows years ago.

Nighthawks in the imagination

Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks" "an emblem of New York City"? Really? I always thought it looked like Chicago or LA or somewhere else. I guess I was mistaken.

I don't usually skim the op-ed pages of the NYT, but today, I saw yesterday's, and stopped at this essay about trying to find the actual location of Hopper's most famous work, which I'm sure you remember from dorm rooms everywhere. And no, it doesn't really depict Marilyn, James Dean, and Elvis after hours.

["Nighthawks", Hopper said in an interview..., “was suggested by a restaurant on Greenwich Avenue where two streets meet.” The location was pinpointed by a Hopper expert, Gail Levin, as the “empty triangular lot” where Greenwich meets 11th Street and Seventh Avenue, otherwise known as Mulry Square. This has become accepted city folklore. Greenwich Village tour guides point to the lot, now owned by the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, and tell visitors that Hopper’s diner stood there.} Jeremiah Moss, NYT Monday, July 5, 2010.

I'm looking at it in a book right now. Too much sidewalk, which is too clean. My eye keeps being drawn to the empty space in the lower left foreground, which seems slightly distended, as if by a fisheye lens.

When I think of Hopper, I think of more of the wide open spaces, which I imagine to be in other, less crowded parts of the country. A house bordered by weedy fields. A first floor motel room. So looking at the plates in "Edward Hopper and the American Imagination", I realize my memory does not match the reality exactly. As I page through the book, I see that he did paint New York scenes, but the harsh, clear sunlight of the daytime paintings which are set elsewhere are more vivid in my memory. My imaginary NYC, my imaginary Edward Hopper paintings, and Edward Hopper's imaginary NYC do not line up.

The consensus seems to be that the "Nighthawks" diner existed only in his imagination.

the empty holster

So, right up front. I'm going to admit to being underwhelmed by Toy Story 3.

The short that precceeds it is puzzlingly retro-sexist, but so difficult to describe, I'll just say that it features a blobby cartoon character is drooling over a cartoon bikini girl. That set me down into a stew of righteous feminist indignation before the movie even started. Then in the first five minutes, there's a big fiery explosion, and a mushroom cloud (it's made of plastic monkeys, but still). I can't help but feel like I'm nitpicking here, but I come to a Pixar film looking for some shameless emotional exploitation, not action movie stuff. I guess it could be taken as a wink and a nudge to the usual summer-movie-mayhem, but it wasn't funny. It was a little funny. Looking forward to a big tearful catharsis, I remained dry-eyed until the final minutes. I guess nothing could push my buttons like montage of Jessie being loved and abandoned by Emily while Sara McLaghlan sings.

Toy Story is still about playing with toys the right way. It's a horror to be played with the wrong way. Being loved to death by young pre-schoolers is equivalent to dismemberment and reconfiguration at the hands of Sid, serial-killer -in-training. Though in the minds of some, he is creative, unbound by conventions and rules.

The most intriguing aspect of it all is, as always, the empty holster. There's always a little tension around Woody's removable hat being lost, but even Big Al, the heartless mercenary toy collector who is so excited to find a Woody complete with hat, never mentions what is missing from the holster. I always wonder how and when exactly these decisions get made, because nothing happens by accident in a Pixar movie. [Pixar provides a great argument that great (popular) art can be made by committee.] A TV cowboy of another era wouldn't be complete without a gun (or two), but by today's standards, it's unthinkable to provide a child with even a tiny six-shooter. So the compromise is an empty holster. What's the quote about a gun in the first act, having to go off? "One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it." I pulled it from Wikipedia entry on Chekhov. So what does no gun mean? And who is Woody's original owner? I've always assumed he belonged to the missing and never mentioned father. (I did the math and it works out well enough.If Andy is 17 in 2010, and "Woody's Roundup" aired in the early 60's, that adds up.) The empty holster is the symbol of the lost father, that Woody can fill in for but never fully replace. As the father is never mentioned, neither is the gun.

Woody also fills the role of boss of the toys. He's the jovial manager that David Brent/Michael Scott (I love both US and UK versions of The Office) are always trying to be. Quick with a joke, trusted, admired, beloved. Able to muster his troops and calm the savages in a crisis. And he has a militaristic, buffoonish sidekick jockeying for power in Buzz Lightyear. Hmm, I may have to expand on this later. I wonder if I can make footnotes.

book trees

It's tree trunks with little cubbies filled with books to exchange. It's in Berlin. I want one. With magic book fairies.

From NY Times article on globalism by Michael Kimmelman.

Smudged Mascara

Maria Bamford! Last Friday night I got to see Maria Bamford. When comedians I like recommend other comedians, I pay attention, hence I became aware of Maria Bamford. As much as I love Sarah Silverman, Janeane Garofalo, and Kathy Griffin, now I love Maria Bamford. She makes me gasp, chuckle, screech, snort, and cry. Don't wear mascara to a comedy show.

My dear sister-in-law Renee met me at Comix on 14th St. (Does any comedy club not have a cringe-inducing name?) As a awesome surprise, we got a short set from Jim Florentine, who has one of the greatest speaking voices I've ever heard. It's abrasive yet hypnotic. I remember hearing him on Howard Stern and "Crank Yankers" and wondering, "Who is that guy?". And why do I love to listen to him? It's like Sweet-Tarts for your ears. Salt 'n vinegar chips. It kinda hurts but you can't stop eating. But in your ear. I looked him up and turns out that he's a co-host of "That Metal Show" on VH-1. Rock on, dude! (Did I ever mention that in high school I partied with the burnouts? Yes, I said "partied", what else ya gonna you call it?) Also, he torments telemarketers.

Opener Jackie Kashian was great, admitting that, yes, it turns out that seeing her husband in adult superhero underoos is not a turn-on. I see what she means, but Father's Day is right around the corner.

But more to the point, can I explain the magic of Maria Bamford? She does voices. It's "wacky". No! Mustn't analyze comedy! Don't love it to death! Don't squeeze it too hard! I know EVERYBODY watched "The Sarah Silverman Program". right? Maria guest starred as May Kadoody, new mayor of Valley Village. And she "killed", as the comics say, on John Oliver's New York Stand Up Show on Comedy Central. Just watch.

this really would be a 4:30 movie

We saw District 9 finally. It's like an empty-headed blockbuster in an indie cheap suit (and in reality, a mid-budget $30 mil.).
Aliens are shipwrecked on Earth, or more specifically, Johannesburg, South Africa. It begins as another mock documentary, about the government's attempt to move the "prawns" from their squalid shantytown to an internment camp. They know all about how do that in S.A. It's a parable about refugees, then it's a buddy action movie (and Planet of the Apes, The Fly, and Mad Max 2 ). The movie does contain this exact scene: (guy under fire yelling to other guy) "NO, YOU GO! YOU CAN MAKE IT! I'LL HOLD THEM OFF!" Also, as a bonus, criminally depraved Africans of all skin tones. The white Africans are stock evil corporate types who only want weapons systems and biotechnology and will dissect you alive to get it, but the black Africans want to EAT you to gain your power. There are also merciless, bloodthirsty mercenaries, whom good guys are allowed to kill. In District 9, bad guys aren't taken out by a bullet, they explode in chunky splatters. Over and over.
But the special affects were remarkable, maybe the most seamless CG creatures I've ever seen. And I just found out that leading man Sharlto Copley hadn't been an actor before this film, and that is just shocking. He's good, he's Murdock in "The A-Team", and I wonder what his real accent sounds like. I guess I can watch WWE Monday Night RAW tonight and find out. He does comedy in character in this clip from Funny or Die.

An Inexplicable Object

Michael and I spent a delightful Sunday morning at the Stormville Airport Flea Market. We can be found there most summer holiday weekends, covered in dust and sunscreen, happily rummaging through bins of LPs, 45s, vintage hankies and tablecloths. Guess who has their grubby little fingers in which bin?
There are always a few items which catch the eye, not because we must possess them, but just because they are inexplicable. For instance, an eight foot tall Captain America made of colored tape. It's not all tape, I suppose there is some kind of armature (took me ALL week to think of that word!) under there, but most of the visible surface seemed to be colored tape. There are crafty people out there making prom dresses and such with duct tape, but this is beyond. The shield is a disc sled. I looked up images of Captain America and all the details look correct.
God, I love a flea market. Is it goulish to be pawing through what, if you think about it, are most likely the former possessions of persons now deceased. Doesn't bother me. I just love an old assortment of random stuff, whether it's in a museum or spread out over an open field. Two weeks ago, my friend Jody and I made a field trip to a salvage yard in Barnegat, Recycling the Past. Joy! A garage filled with old tiles pulled put of old bathrooms! Old doors! Old sinks! Rusty stuff! Heaven!

I really thought I couldn't bring a camera! bad pictures

Me and the bus.

Me in the theater

Suzanne Somers in lower left corner, Kyle MacLachlan in center with white collar.

That's the backs of Jerry & Jessica.

Whitney Port's updo, and the ladies onstage.

Link to the gowns on EW site.

Huffington Post

Oh, and we did see Michelle Trachtenberg at the party, and Jennifer Love Hewitt on the red carpet cam.

I am at the Center of Glamour

As anyone who has come in contact with me in the last week already knows, my husband and I were gifted with tickets to the premiere (AND AFTERPARTY) of SEX AND THE CITY 2. (ThankyouthankyouthankyouJasonLinn) I am there! I am on the phone rounding up babysitting! I got a pedicure! I am out buying 4 inch platform wedges! But I am going to wear my all-purpose Little Black Dress. It's my most expensive clothing purchase ever, and I am still amortizing. I apologize to the girlfriends who would love to tag along, I would love to take you, but I am married to a man who would enjoy this almost as much as myself. And I love him for that.

Now, getting into midtown Manhattan at rush hour takes some planning, so I left at 4pm, parked the car at Lincoln Center, directly under where the party would be (because I'm logistically gifted that way), and walked down (wearing sparkly flip-flops) to Radio City Music Hall. I had some time to stop at Bergdorf's, where the windows are SATC-themed. Yes, I wanted to grab every saleslady and shake her shoulders and whisper-shout "I'm going! I'm going! Tonight! To the movie! And the party!" I kept my cool. I went up to the shoe department and changed into my wedges to practice walking around a bit. As I bent to down to do up the ankle strap, I notice a fabulous lady was wearing Vivienne Westwood rubber ballet flats! Wow! She was Italian, I think. I felt like a bit of a poseur in the Chanel department with my two pearl necklaces tied up with a black silk flower. But I tried to look dignified. Or something.

I met up with dear husband in Rockefeller Center and we made it to our seats in the auditorium. Better seats than I had imagined, right in the middle of the orchestra. Red carpet arrivals (over on the other side of the block) were broadcast on giant screens. Liza! John Corbett! Jason Lewis! (You could see his blue eyes blazing on the giant screen.) There's SJP! In one-shoulder draped chartreuse chiffon. Matthew! Kristin Davis! Bright pink strapless. Kim Cattrall! Plunging neckline sheer scattered with gold sequins. Cynthia Nixon! I don't remember what she was wearing!

So, we waited patiently in our seats as the auditorium filled. Zac Posen was a few rows in front of us, near Valentino! The crowd periodically erupts with camera flashes and squeals as people recognize famous people. Lynn Cohen, who plays Miranda's housekeeper Magda, was in our row. I think I was sitting next to her granddaughter. David Eigenberg (Steve) (who really does talk like that), and Daniel Handler (Harry) sat BEHIND us with their families. Vanessa Williams, Suzanne Somers (whose menopause book is mentioned over and over in the movie, million-dollar blond hair), Gabourey Sidibe, and Gilles Marini all sat a few rows ahead of us. My personal favorite-KYLE MACLACHLAN!! I jumped up, flapped my hands and squealed. And took a picture. Twin Peaks! BLUE VELVET! GGAAAHHH! He was right at the end of the row in front of us. Also Jerry and Jessica Seinfeld, Donald and Melania Trump, and Anna Wintour. Oh, and Johnny Weir (if you don't know who that is, think Adam Lambert on ice). Also George Stephanopoulos, Whitney Port, and Padma Lakshmi (that's special for my dear hubby). And Chris Noth and Willie Garson.

Finally the lights went down, and Michael Patrick King took the stage to introduce the film, give a few thanks, and introduce the leading ladies. Wait, are they showing a movie here? We'd been at our seats for an hour, I kind of forgot that part.

I don't want to give any spoilers, but to sum up, it is like a 2-hour version of the show, much more frothy, funny, and warm than the first movie, which I found so wrenching and heartbreaking I only watched it once. I must now say a few words about the new guy. Miranda's lust interest is a "Danish architect", an actor I never saw before. Where did they find this guy! In England, duh. As I discovered when I looked him up on IMDB, his name is Max Ryan, and previously he's only done action movies (what you didn't see "Death Race"? Neither did I). If Daniel Craig does anything for you, I recommend.

Movie over, everyone shuffled very slowly to the exits. We caught up to David Eigenberg facing the wrong direction, throwing his hands in the air, screeching, "I lost my wife! I lost my wife!" We shuffled outside and got in line to take a double-decker tour bus 10 blocks north to Damrosch Park in Lincoln Center. A patterned red carpet strewn with rose petals and lanterns led past fans behind barricades to the tent, where a big security guard asked to see invites, and then plucked it out of your hands as he invited you to enter. But... but... My souvenir! Gone.

The party was in a giant tent, with ottomans and flowers and buffets filled with falafel and shish kabobs, cocktails, a DJ, and alcoves with couches marked "Reserved". We got some plates of food, having never eaten a proper dinner. I waited for my dear husband at the end of the hallway that led to the restrooms. He returned and said, "that architect guy is in the bathroom." Me: "So, if we wait here I'll see him when he come out?" "Yes." "Okay" "There he is...that's him, right?" Me "(sigh) yes". Do I have the best husband OR WHAT! We saw "architect guy" a bunch more times just hanging out, as he is not quite famous yet. We made three circuits around the room to absorb the fabulousness...and gape...we saw Matthew Settle, Hoda Kotb, Cojo, Guy Pearce (great glasses and we totally made eye contact), Gilles Marini (not my cup a tea exactly, but WOW), Ron White (plays Miranda's bad boss), Adam Shankman, and Victor Garber. Fern Mallis, who just stepped down as head of the CFDA-she couldn't walk 10 feet without another gay calling out, "Fern! Fern!". There was a photo booth from sponsor HP where we got our picture taken. It was supposed to go to my email, but it hasn't shown up. I do have a hard copy.

It turns out there was no other party for more special people! We were at the real party! I didn't expect that. I assumed the stars would be behind a rope or a curtain, or somewhere else entirely. By the time we left, we had seen all four ladies, Matthew Broderick, Chris Noth (yes, his fingers grazed my hip), Evan Handler (brushed up against him in the crush), David Eigenberg (very nice salt and pepper hair), Mario Cantone, Willie Garson, and (sigh) John Corbett. He looked great with longer hair. I have never in my life seen so many good-looking men in one room in my life ever. But in a crowd that's 60% gay, 10% actor, and most of the rest well groomed entertainment execs in their best suits, I guess I should not be surprised. But I was!

Eventually we did run into a publicist working the event that my dear hubby knows, and chatted with him for a while, about "SATC2" vs. "Prince of Persia" at the box office this weekend. Will the ladies who might be tempted to see the "Prince" be instead inexorably drawn to SATC2? We shared a Jake moment (sigh). And Craig invited us to actually sit on couch of "reserved" area. Ooooohh. My feet.

Now I must return to normal life, and get the barf smell out of my station wagon. Sorry to bring it down to earth so hard.

I'll post more pictures separately, right after I finish this Cosmo.

Jazz Hands

Last night, I (and Michael) went to the theater. Many who know me have heard my mock-shamefaced confession that I don't really like live theater. With music or without. There's people shouting and over-enunciating and I can hear their feet stomping around on stage (involuntary shiver).

I am not totally immune. I LOVED Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I was unable to leave my seat at the end of the show as "Heroes" rang out over the PA, my jaw hanging open and mind reeling. Spring Awakening was shocking, starring Lea Michelle and Jonathan Groff (lately of Glee). It seemed like an impossible trick to pull off, adapting a turn-of-the-last-century German play with a rock score. But it was awesome, and I can say I've seen Michelle and Groff DO IT live onstage. Keep waiting, Gleeks.

Also, I did enjoy The Lion King, and cried three times during the course of the show.

Which brings me to last night's performance of Everyday Rapture. I cried. I cried several times... At a one-woman show... I know.

I do love to read heart-breaking memoirs - Running with Scissors, Liar's Club, David Sedaris when he's serious. So imagine that a gifted memoirist is also a very gifted singer/actress. Weaving in songs that already break your heart. As she illustrates her struggle to reconcile her Kansas Mennonite-lite upbringing with her desire to "live your life in a song" on Broadway and become a "pagan, money-grubbing, showoff whore". It all adds up to me in a red-velvet seat with tears running down my cheeks.

I was especially moved by...well...almost every bit of it, and it was very funny too. Young ladies, do not lose your virginity to a street magician.

Oh, and her name is Sherie Renee Scott. And Mr. Rogers taught her about the possibility of living unashamed and accepted just as you are.

The most perfect song was Nilsson's "I Guess the Lord Must Be In New York City", which puts it all in a tiny nutshell. Just this week I have been listening to that song as well as "Everybody's Talkin'", on the iPod, in my office, trying not to sing out loud while walking the dog, wondering can I pull this off at my next karaoke night. Which I have about once every ten years or so. I have plenty of time to practice.

As a added bonus for suburbanites paying babysitters, it's an imtermissionless 90 minutes, right on 42nd St. You can be back on the 10:15 bus.

I've been hiding out for 10 years. Being a housewife. Dropping out of touch with old friends, spending most days alone. Then I got a dog, and I caved in to peer pressure and joined Facebook, which I had scoffed at for years. And found I couldn't stop writing. People have encouraged me to write over the years, and I thought, if I wanted to write, I'd be writing. So now I'm writing.

Apparently, a dog really does work as an anti-depressant, at least for a mild case. Yesterday, my dear family was out of the house, on a shining Sunday morning, and instead of parking my butt in front of the television, catching up on the DVR backlog (and knitting), I took Copper to the dog park. Generally, I consider myself impervious to the "beautiful day". What better way to waste a sunny day than indoors watching television, or even better, in a dark movie theater. It's what passes for feeling naughty these days. And now look at me, going outside. Willingly and of my own volition.

So I will be sharing the thoughts and ideas that are burbling up and can no longer be suppressed. Thanks to all those who have encouraged me. I turns out I am one of those people who needs to tell l the whole world what I think.