At the Walmart on Kelly Johnson Parkway yesterday with my family (The one overlooking Six Flags Magic Mountain), picking up a few things for lunch and dinner during the week, I reached the aisle that had canned tuna, and found the pouches that Starkist sells, including chunk light tuna salad, with water chestnuts and dill relish, among other ingredients. I bought one of these from Target two weeks ago, liked it, and wanted it again, especially since it was cheaper here.
Last night, toward 11 p.m., when the house was settling in for the night, Dad and Mom in their bedroom, Meridith in hers finishing Devoted by Hillary Duff (She's been a fan since Lizzie McGuire, and owns Elixir too), and me in the living room on the computer, I went to the fridge to get some water and looked at the pouch which was laying on top of four of the Yoplait Greek yogurts I had also gotten. I looked at the bottom of the pouch on the front, which has the only discernible copy anywhere on it: "Delicious, Fresh Taste & Ready to Enjoy." It is delicious, it tastes fresher than when my dad glops mounds of mayonnaise in the tuna salad he makes, and I would probably enjoy it again at lunch again today (I did). I liked that sentence because of its self-confidence, so sure of itself, as all products have to be when they're on the shelves. There has to be something to capture the attention of shoppers. For me, it was just that it was chunk light tuna mixed in with other ingredients without having to do all the work. And I'd never thought of water chestnuts in a tuna salad, but it works. It gives it a firmer texture.
That sentence also applied to me a little after 1 in the morning. For the past few months, I've always been on the computer until a little after 2 a.m. or about 20 minutes before 3. I don't do a great deal on it that furthers my life, at least in my pursuit of being published again before I turn 30, which is why I'm glad I'm still 27. I'm a lazy writer, but not so lazy to not realize that the next two years will not wait. I'm aware, and am reading a few books that focus on 1930s Hollywood history to see what has been done and where I want to go with my book.
I decided that I'd had enough on the computer before midnight. I love the web comic Unshelved because it takes place in a library, among patrons and librarians (http://www.unshelved.com/), but there's only so much of its archive I can read in one sitting, since I'm on May 16, 2004 all the way from Saturday, February 16, 2002 (It's posted seven days a week). And I had read the Sally Forth and Rose is Rose comics for Monday, so there was nothing else, no reason for me to stay on any longer, not even to seek out more music for my desert soundtrack. It's a better pursuit during the evening.
Last week's episode of Hart of Dixie was still on the TiVo, and I went for that, laying on the couch and watching about 20 minutes' worth before I decided to delete it. I like the concept, about Zoe Hart (Rachel Bilson), a New York doctor who has moved to Bluebell, Alabama to take over the practice of a deceased man that she finds out was her father. It's Hollywood's view of the South, so I can live with that, but where is the charming, spirited show I found in the pilot? I think it left with Nancy Travis, who went on to Last Man Standing with Tim Allen after the second episode. Travis was the heart and soul of the show. She gave it honesty, and a slight, but warm edge that was a wonderful counterpoint to the miscast Tim Matheson as the owner of the other half of the practice who wants to push out Zoe and have the entire practice to himself. He was much better as Vice President Hoynes on The West Wing. I'll give this week's episode a little bit of a chance, but I can't keep going on with this and wasting my time, still hoping that I get that show that I originally saw. It was fun fluff. Now it's just a chore.
PBS aired the Ed Sullivan Comedy Special during the evening, and I TiVo'd it, so I watched about 20 minutes of Jackie Mason, Rodney Dangerfield, Jack Benny, Flip Wilson, and Moms Mabley, and had a much better time. Then I decided that it would be an interesting change to get to my room before 2 a.m., and I did. But I didn't feel like continuing Cold Souls or The Glass Menagerie, starring John Malkovich, one of my favorite actors. I just wanted to read, uninterrupted, and it was the perfect chance.
I had brought The Kitchen Daughter by Jael McHenry with me into Walmart to read while Mom stopped to look in the cosmetics section and in pharmacy and in other parts of Walmart before we reached the food aisles to get what we needed for the week. Didn't happen. The Sunday crowd was in every aisle, and I heard one guy, probably two years older than me, say to another guy, "Walmart is always an epic adventure." I want to go to whatever Walmart he's been to. Here, it's just necessity shopping, and the bargain book selection, except for the hardcover edition of Just After Sunset by Stephen King which I picked up at the Walmart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive, is reliably disappointing.
In my room, in that middle-of-the-night silence, I wanted to read as much of The Kitchen Daughter as I could, continuing from page 151. For me, part of the appeal of The Kitchen Daughter is that it involves details of food, and cooking. And I was completely inside the story, in that kitchen with Ginny, the main character. When I got to page 202, I saw that it was 2:51. I didn't care. I wanted to finish this. The end came at page 272, and it was 3:30. I didn't worry about it being so late, because lately, I've always gotten up at about 10:15, no matter if I go to bed at 2:20 or 3:30. I didn't think about the day to come. I only thought about having been inside this novel, having completely disappeared into the words, drinking it all up and wanting more and more and more and more. I felt totally refreshed, smiling as big as the world can make smiles. And I want to do it again. And I will. If I don't finish Becoming Justice Blackmun: Harry Blackmun's Supreme Court Journey by Linda Greenhouse by late tonight, my reading will likely have a different effect, one of intense concentration, since I'm still learning everything I can find about the Supreme Court. But there will still be joy, still deep satisfaction in uninterrupted reading time. In that time, I am the only one in the world, and I can travel wherever I want.
Delicious? Yes! Fresh taste? Always! Ready to enjoy? All the time!
(Addendum at 4:27 p.m.: Upon reflection in the shower (What better place to think?), my feelings about my middle-of-the-night reading are best expressed in one of the choruses of Major Tom (Coming Home) by Peter Schilling, my favorite song:
"Earth below us; drifting, falling
Floating, weightless; coming home.")
Monday, October 24, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
The Most Accurate Movie about Las Vegas Feels Mostly Wrong
Hollywood likes to speed up Las Vegas, portraying it as exciting, fast-moving, with such an overwhelming feeling of luck that it's possible for anyone to make it big, and those who don't are merely entertaining side characters.
Las Vegas is exciting, and depending on who you are, where you are, it can feel fast-moving, especially if you frequent its myriad nightclubs. And if you've got some really good hands going, then there can be an overwhelming feeling of luck. But Hollywood's Las Vegas is not the real Las Vegas. It doesn't move that fast. It takes time to get there, to settle in briefly before you head out on the Strip, to take in all that's around you, all the zippy colors, all the sounds, all that evidence, such as a smaller-scale Eiffel Tower that marks the beginning of Paris Las Vegas, that shows you will not find all of this anywhere else. And what you experience here is purely yours. You may be a gambler, or you may simply be content walking through the various casinos and eating at some of the buffets they offer. You may like to see some of the shows, such as Donny & Marie or Celine Dion or Elton John, or, who knows, you might be interested in the interior designs of Vegas bathrooms. Whatever it is, no two experiences are alike.
There is only one movie made by Hollywood, Warner Bros. specifically, that portrays Las Vegas with 100% accuracy. It doesn't seem like it's of Hollywood, since it was shuffled around so much on the calendar before eventually opening in a little-faith slot against Spider-Man 3 in May 2007. It's Lucky You, starring Eric Bana, Drew Barrymore, and Robert Duvall, with supporting roles filled by Debra Messing, Horatio Sanz, Saverio Guerra (Remember Bob on Becker?), Danny Hoch, and a cameo by Robert Downey, Jr.
Before I go further, I saw a lot of bad movies, and was ticked off by many of them when I wrote movie reviews for the South Florida Sun-Sentinel's Teentime pages (in the back of their weekend Showtime section every Friday) when I was in middle and high school, and for Film Threat (http://www.filmthreat.com/). The memories of what teed me off about those movies are gone. I can find my old reviews on the Film Threat website, and I can probably remember briefly why I was so mad, but that full-on feeling is gone.
There is one particular anger I remember vividly, though. I always went for novel experiences in moviegoing, especially advance screenings, which usually included movie theaters a bit of a drive from Pembroke Pines, one of which was AMC Aventura 24 on the third floor of the Aventura Mall. There was one Saturday morning screening there of Pokemon: The First Movie - Mewtwo Strikes Back about two weeks before its release on November 10, 1999. I don't know why I went, but I think it was one of the first invitations I'd received to an advance screening, so I wanted to see what this was about, what great fortune there was in regularly writing movie reviews. Being on a Saturday morning, the audience was made up entirely of kids, and parents who would rather be anywhere else. Some had won their tickets on the radio, but I had no trouble finding a seat since there was a row roped off for press, which meant me and a few other critics. But it didn't matter. I was angry after it was over. I couldn't understand how movies like this could be made for kids, movies without thought. I was 15, and had been a huge fan of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, and had liked Pogs, so I hadn't thought about the gobs of cash to be made by the studios that released these movies, Warner Bros. in this case.
After leaving the auditorium the movie had shown in and the theater itself, I went to the box office and found out on the digital showtime board there that The Straight Story was showing. This was also being featured at the Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival, and I was thinking of asking my parents to take me there to see it. But here it was, no film festival crowd involved. Upon meeting Mom and Dad at the Johnny Rocket's across the way, I asked them if they could wait a little over two hours more so I could see The Straight Story. Then at least, Dad didn't like to spend a lot of time anywhere, so it was big of him to say yes, and Mom did too, and I got more money, and off I went.
The chance to see a movie about an old man driving his tractor from Laurens, Iowa to Mt. Zion, Wisconsin to see his estranged brother, because he could not drive a car anymore, was not one I was going to let pass by, especially since it was directed by David Lynch, never known for such gentleness in filmmaking. And it was so worth it. It completely washed away the ill will I had toward Pokemon: The First Movie. It's why the anger I had then is faded today, dull. I remember it, and then it doesn't matter.
I feel a kind of anger toward Lucky You that will never go away. I know Las Vegas, and though I haven't yet been to all the casinos, give me time when I finally have the time and much closer proximity as a resident. Lucky You is the Las Vegas I know, especially in one shot. The camera focuses on the Eiffel Tower at Paris, then pans diagonally down to the waterfalls at Bellagio before settling on Huck (Eric Bana) and Billie (Drew Barrymore). There is no music accompanying the shot. It is the pure atmosphere of Las Vegas. It is exactly what it feels like at 9 p.m., at 10 p.m. There is an underlying nervous energy, but it's very faint. Where do you want to go? What do you want to experience? But there is also such pervasive peacefulness. This is where you belong. Stay here. Take in the waterfalls. Listen. Listen. Look. Listen.
Lucky You is set in 2003 Las Vegas, and is about Huck, who wants a spot in the World Series of Poker, who, in the opening moments of the movie, is trying to pawn off a presumably untouched digital camera, still in the box. His monologue in trying to convince the grizzled pawnbroker (Phyllis Somerville) to take the camera is brilliant. He seems to have a confidence that shimmers around him, and yet, it's the egregious fault of the screenplay by Eric Roth and director Curtis Hanson that there isn't a great deal to him beyond what you see right there. However, the pawnbroker is one personality you're likely to see in the real Las Vegas, so that begins the movie's accuracy. When Huck drives his motorcycle to the service entrance of a casino on the Strip, that is the real Las Vegas around him, but there are no tricks to try to make it faster than it appears. Hanson seems to know intimately what Las Vegas feels like, and so it's quiet all around, save for the music during these moments.
Charles Martin Smith plays Roy, Huck's chief backer in his attempt to get into the World Series of Poker. Currently, he's better known as the director of Dolphin Tale, also released by Warner Bros. Roy wants this investment to pay off, and says to Huck at one point, "You want sympathy? You'll find it between "shit" and "syphilis" in the dictionary." You don't have to know anyone like Roy around Las Vegas, and yet you can sense people around you that are like him. They're around. Vegas births them.
There's also Saverio Guerra as Lester, who's known for oddball bets. Before the end of the movie, he takes on a bet that he can live in the men's bathroom for 30 days at Caesars Palace without leaving it. Lester is quite possibly the most entertaining character in Lucky You. The real Las Vegas is undoubtedly stocked with Lesters. They're as numerous as the Roys.
It's always nice to see Drew Barrymore in any movie, but she's saddled with so little to do as Billie Offer, who's moved to Las Vegas to try to be a singer. She meets Huck and gets involved with him, despite her sister (Debra Messing), likely an ex of Huck's, warning her off. I don't know if there's anyone like Billie in Las Vegas, not yet, and I wouldn't actively seek them. There probably is, but surely they're not saddled by the silliness the screenplay forces Barrymore to work with, such as when Huck is teaching her how to play poker. Despite my fondness for Barrymore, more moments with Lester and Roy would have been more welcome.
Huck's chief antagonist is his father, L.C. (Robert Duvall), though L.C. isn't the antagonist type. He just wasn't much of a father, and also happens to be the greatest poker player in the world, and shows it against Huck, but that's just how the game is. In Las Vegas, you have your money, you have whatever luck you're dealt, and for poker players, that depends on what cards you get. That's just the way it goes. But there's so many scenes between Huck and L.C. like this, resentment included, that it becomes tiresome.
Lucky You is so thoroughly squandered on the dealings between L.C. and Huck, and Huck and Billie, that sometimes the real Las Vegas is lost. The golf course scenes that include Horatio Sanz as the one who bets Lester that he can't do this or that (such as the Caesars Palace bathroom bet) don't feel anything like Las Vegas. Yes, there are golf courses in Las Vegas, but this feels disjointed. And yet, Las Vegas is still there somehow. The moments are fewer and fewer as it goes on, but you can still feel it. But then, maybe that's the intent. For a visitor to Las Vegas (which Huck isn't, but in the span of this movie, we are), it is so vivid when we get there, and we appreciate it as the days go on, but when we leave, there are only bits of it that cling to us. We can remember fondly what we did, but on that last day, it's time to pack, time to go home. We have to get back on the road, have to catch that flight.
Ideally, my kind of Vegas movie would have the scenery and atmosphere as Curtis Hanson has captured it, so close to the real thing that you could jump into the screen and be there if that were possible, combined with the Las Vegas segment in My Blueberry Nights, with Natalie Portman as a poker player too, who knows more about the odds and tells than about people as they are, whereas Norah Jones sees people as they are.
I'll always somewhat like Lucky You for finally getting Las Vegas right where so many others have gotten it wrong, but loathe it because of those missed opportunities for a better story. With the exceptions of Roy, Lester, and Robert Downey, Jr. holding down a telephone psychiatry service and other businesses across many phone lines at a bar, you can find more interesting characters at Serendipity 3 outside of Caesars Palace, known for its frozen hot chocolate.
But until you can get to Las Vegas, this is as close as you'll get to it in a movie. For the most part, this is exactly right.
(I thought about Lucky You while at Walmart today, walking from the bakery with a few free samples back to Mom and Meridith at the refrigerated yogurt case, and also wondered if I should get it on DVD for the scenes I like, or buy it from Amazon Instant Video to watch online whenever I feel like it. It's cheap enough both ways, a little over $3 from the sellers at Amazon Marketplace, though a bit bumped up for online viewing at $5.99. I know those scenes well enough, but what do I need them for? Is it because I want those good feelings about Las Vegas that I get when watching it being accurately portrayed? But surely I'll be there one day to experience it again, and again, and again. I'm conflicted, and then I'm not. And then I am again. Yes. No. Or maybe I'll stick with the Henderson Press for now, downloading all the back issues from the website and reading them, paying full attention to where I'll actually be, with Las Vegas comfortably nearby.)
Las Vegas is exciting, and depending on who you are, where you are, it can feel fast-moving, especially if you frequent its myriad nightclubs. And if you've got some really good hands going, then there can be an overwhelming feeling of luck. But Hollywood's Las Vegas is not the real Las Vegas. It doesn't move that fast. It takes time to get there, to settle in briefly before you head out on the Strip, to take in all that's around you, all the zippy colors, all the sounds, all that evidence, such as a smaller-scale Eiffel Tower that marks the beginning of Paris Las Vegas, that shows you will not find all of this anywhere else. And what you experience here is purely yours. You may be a gambler, or you may simply be content walking through the various casinos and eating at some of the buffets they offer. You may like to see some of the shows, such as Donny & Marie or Celine Dion or Elton John, or, who knows, you might be interested in the interior designs of Vegas bathrooms. Whatever it is, no two experiences are alike.
There is only one movie made by Hollywood, Warner Bros. specifically, that portrays Las Vegas with 100% accuracy. It doesn't seem like it's of Hollywood, since it was shuffled around so much on the calendar before eventually opening in a little-faith slot against Spider-Man 3 in May 2007. It's Lucky You, starring Eric Bana, Drew Barrymore, and Robert Duvall, with supporting roles filled by Debra Messing, Horatio Sanz, Saverio Guerra (Remember Bob on Becker?), Danny Hoch, and a cameo by Robert Downey, Jr.
Before I go further, I saw a lot of bad movies, and was ticked off by many of them when I wrote movie reviews for the South Florida Sun-Sentinel's Teentime pages (in the back of their weekend Showtime section every Friday) when I was in middle and high school, and for Film Threat (http://www.filmthreat.com/). The memories of what teed me off about those movies are gone. I can find my old reviews on the Film Threat website, and I can probably remember briefly why I was so mad, but that full-on feeling is gone.
There is one particular anger I remember vividly, though. I always went for novel experiences in moviegoing, especially advance screenings, which usually included movie theaters a bit of a drive from Pembroke Pines, one of which was AMC Aventura 24 on the third floor of the Aventura Mall. There was one Saturday morning screening there of Pokemon: The First Movie - Mewtwo Strikes Back about two weeks before its release on November 10, 1999. I don't know why I went, but I think it was one of the first invitations I'd received to an advance screening, so I wanted to see what this was about, what great fortune there was in regularly writing movie reviews. Being on a Saturday morning, the audience was made up entirely of kids, and parents who would rather be anywhere else. Some had won their tickets on the radio, but I had no trouble finding a seat since there was a row roped off for press, which meant me and a few other critics. But it didn't matter. I was angry after it was over. I couldn't understand how movies like this could be made for kids, movies without thought. I was 15, and had been a huge fan of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, and had liked Pogs, so I hadn't thought about the gobs of cash to be made by the studios that released these movies, Warner Bros. in this case.
After leaving the auditorium the movie had shown in and the theater itself, I went to the box office and found out on the digital showtime board there that The Straight Story was showing. This was also being featured at the Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival, and I was thinking of asking my parents to take me there to see it. But here it was, no film festival crowd involved. Upon meeting Mom and Dad at the Johnny Rocket's across the way, I asked them if they could wait a little over two hours more so I could see The Straight Story. Then at least, Dad didn't like to spend a lot of time anywhere, so it was big of him to say yes, and Mom did too, and I got more money, and off I went.
The chance to see a movie about an old man driving his tractor from Laurens, Iowa to Mt. Zion, Wisconsin to see his estranged brother, because he could not drive a car anymore, was not one I was going to let pass by, especially since it was directed by David Lynch, never known for such gentleness in filmmaking. And it was so worth it. It completely washed away the ill will I had toward Pokemon: The First Movie. It's why the anger I had then is faded today, dull. I remember it, and then it doesn't matter.
I feel a kind of anger toward Lucky You that will never go away. I know Las Vegas, and though I haven't yet been to all the casinos, give me time when I finally have the time and much closer proximity as a resident. Lucky You is the Las Vegas I know, especially in one shot. The camera focuses on the Eiffel Tower at Paris, then pans diagonally down to the waterfalls at Bellagio before settling on Huck (Eric Bana) and Billie (Drew Barrymore). There is no music accompanying the shot. It is the pure atmosphere of Las Vegas. It is exactly what it feels like at 9 p.m., at 10 p.m. There is an underlying nervous energy, but it's very faint. Where do you want to go? What do you want to experience? But there is also such pervasive peacefulness. This is where you belong. Stay here. Take in the waterfalls. Listen. Listen. Look. Listen.
Lucky You is set in 2003 Las Vegas, and is about Huck, who wants a spot in the World Series of Poker, who, in the opening moments of the movie, is trying to pawn off a presumably untouched digital camera, still in the box. His monologue in trying to convince the grizzled pawnbroker (Phyllis Somerville) to take the camera is brilliant. He seems to have a confidence that shimmers around him, and yet, it's the egregious fault of the screenplay by Eric Roth and director Curtis Hanson that there isn't a great deal to him beyond what you see right there. However, the pawnbroker is one personality you're likely to see in the real Las Vegas, so that begins the movie's accuracy. When Huck drives his motorcycle to the service entrance of a casino on the Strip, that is the real Las Vegas around him, but there are no tricks to try to make it faster than it appears. Hanson seems to know intimately what Las Vegas feels like, and so it's quiet all around, save for the music during these moments.
Charles Martin Smith plays Roy, Huck's chief backer in his attempt to get into the World Series of Poker. Currently, he's better known as the director of Dolphin Tale, also released by Warner Bros. Roy wants this investment to pay off, and says to Huck at one point, "You want sympathy? You'll find it between "shit" and "syphilis" in the dictionary." You don't have to know anyone like Roy around Las Vegas, and yet you can sense people around you that are like him. They're around. Vegas births them.
There's also Saverio Guerra as Lester, who's known for oddball bets. Before the end of the movie, he takes on a bet that he can live in the men's bathroom for 30 days at Caesars Palace without leaving it. Lester is quite possibly the most entertaining character in Lucky You. The real Las Vegas is undoubtedly stocked with Lesters. They're as numerous as the Roys.
It's always nice to see Drew Barrymore in any movie, but she's saddled with so little to do as Billie Offer, who's moved to Las Vegas to try to be a singer. She meets Huck and gets involved with him, despite her sister (Debra Messing), likely an ex of Huck's, warning her off. I don't know if there's anyone like Billie in Las Vegas, not yet, and I wouldn't actively seek them. There probably is, but surely they're not saddled by the silliness the screenplay forces Barrymore to work with, such as when Huck is teaching her how to play poker. Despite my fondness for Barrymore, more moments with Lester and Roy would have been more welcome.
Huck's chief antagonist is his father, L.C. (Robert Duvall), though L.C. isn't the antagonist type. He just wasn't much of a father, and also happens to be the greatest poker player in the world, and shows it against Huck, but that's just how the game is. In Las Vegas, you have your money, you have whatever luck you're dealt, and for poker players, that depends on what cards you get. That's just the way it goes. But there's so many scenes between Huck and L.C. like this, resentment included, that it becomes tiresome.
Lucky You is so thoroughly squandered on the dealings between L.C. and Huck, and Huck and Billie, that sometimes the real Las Vegas is lost. The golf course scenes that include Horatio Sanz as the one who bets Lester that he can't do this or that (such as the Caesars Palace bathroom bet) don't feel anything like Las Vegas. Yes, there are golf courses in Las Vegas, but this feels disjointed. And yet, Las Vegas is still there somehow. The moments are fewer and fewer as it goes on, but you can still feel it. But then, maybe that's the intent. For a visitor to Las Vegas (which Huck isn't, but in the span of this movie, we are), it is so vivid when we get there, and we appreciate it as the days go on, but when we leave, there are only bits of it that cling to us. We can remember fondly what we did, but on that last day, it's time to pack, time to go home. We have to get back on the road, have to catch that flight.
Ideally, my kind of Vegas movie would have the scenery and atmosphere as Curtis Hanson has captured it, so close to the real thing that you could jump into the screen and be there if that were possible, combined with the Las Vegas segment in My Blueberry Nights, with Natalie Portman as a poker player too, who knows more about the odds and tells than about people as they are, whereas Norah Jones sees people as they are.
I'll always somewhat like Lucky You for finally getting Las Vegas right where so many others have gotten it wrong, but loathe it because of those missed opportunities for a better story. With the exceptions of Roy, Lester, and Robert Downey, Jr. holding down a telephone psychiatry service and other businesses across many phone lines at a bar, you can find more interesting characters at Serendipity 3 outside of Caesars Palace, known for its frozen hot chocolate.
But until you can get to Las Vegas, this is as close as you'll get to it in a movie. For the most part, this is exactly right.
(I thought about Lucky You while at Walmart today, walking from the bakery with a few free samples back to Mom and Meridith at the refrigerated yogurt case, and also wondered if I should get it on DVD for the scenes I like, or buy it from Amazon Instant Video to watch online whenever I feel like it. It's cheap enough both ways, a little over $3 from the sellers at Amazon Marketplace, though a bit bumped up for online viewing at $5.99. I know those scenes well enough, but what do I need them for? Is it because I want those good feelings about Las Vegas that I get when watching it being accurately portrayed? But surely I'll be there one day to experience it again, and again, and again. I'm conflicted, and then I'm not. And then I am again. Yes. No. Or maybe I'll stick with the Henderson Press for now, downloading all the back issues from the website and reading them, paying full attention to where I'll actually be, with Las Vegas comfortably nearby.)
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Tracking the Day's Music with The New Yorker
The October 24th issue of The New Yorker arrived today, always the first thing I look at at the mailbox, before I take anything else out of the cubbyhole and out of the parcel locker. I get news of the contents of the week's magazine in my e-mail, but I skim through it. I always like to see it in print because it's there, immediately accessible. No waiting for anything online.
The most promising issues to me have a review by Nancy Franklin, my favorite TV critic, and a review by Anthony Lane, one of my two favorite film critics (Josh Bell of Las Vegas Weekly is the other). This issue had both. All it needed to make it potentially perfect was a restaurant review by managing editor Amelia Lester, since she's the best at it. No luck. The review, of St. Anselm in Brooklyn, was by Hannah Goldfield, but now I will be looking for her name in these reviews just as much as Lester, because of a very funny three-quarters of a paragraph about the desserts offered at St. Anselm:
"St. Anselm (with whom Carroll's grandfather shared a name) was a Benedictine monk who made the first ontological argument for the existence of God. St. Anselm's dessert menu makes a less than convincing argument for the existence of a pastry chef. There is little appealing about a half-full jar of peanut butter surrounded by chunks of chocolate (unless, of course, you're stoned), and a plate of marshmallows, strawberries, and crumbled graham crackers drizzled in chocolate sauce looks like what happens when a four-year-old is left alone in a pantry."
Also stocked in this issue was an article about premature births and the methods taken to save babies who are prematurely born, a piece by David Sedaris about summers in the '60s spent on swim teams, and a profile of Jill Abramson, a veteran of The New York Times who was named the new executive editor.
This particular issue also served another purpose. Every day during the week, I have a purple index card next to me on the couch, and whenever I hear music I like on the Spa channel on XM Radio, I write it down and look it up either on YouTube or elsewhere to listen to it more closely and decide if it fits the desert soundtrack I'm creating (More details here: http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/09/desert-soundtrack.html).
The XM Radio in the living room was on when I came out after getting up at 11:20 this morning, and the mail came not long after, so I had this issue in front of me, but no purple index card with me. Two at the computer are still not all filled up, so I could have used those, but I didn't feel like getting them. Mom was on the computer anyway.
I had a pen with me for the purpose of circling those names that interest me in the "Contributors" section on page 2 to look up later (Their books especially), the plays that are listed under "The Theatre" that I want to read, if they're published, and anything else that I want to look up later, including references to some books in the Jill Abramson profile.
And then, while circling names in the "Contributors" section, I heard a flute piece that sounded familiar, that I probably had heard before on the Spa channel. I got up to see what it was, and it was, as listed, "The Dreams of Ch", by Shadowfax. I found out just now that the full title is "The Dreams of Children." It seemed like a bit of the desert to me when I heard it on XM. Listening to it now, it's less so, but it conjures up populated desert streets while driving to Henderson from Las Vegas, not far at all, and farmer's markets I've heard about in the area, that I want to go to.
Later, on page 34, in the middle of the piece about premature births, I heard "Fruits of the La" by Shinji Ishihara, very familiar to me. I hear this one at least twice a week on the Spa Channel. The full title, via YouTube, is "Fruits of the Land," and it feels like it fits the view of that ocean of desert seen from the large rock ledge near the Hacienda Hotel and Casino, the rippling of the heat that made it seem like it was coming closer and then receding, much like the actual ocean. Unfortunately, a search on Amazon and on Google reveals no way to download it. I need this in my desert soundtrack.
And so it went, also through page 44 ("Hakusha-Sonso" by Wall Matthews) and page 55 ("Come My Way" by William Aura). There are weeks when "The New Yorker" totally captivates me, and this came close with that first piece, David Sedaris' appearance, and the Jill Abramson profile. It rests on the steps to that Pantheon of New Yorker Perfection because of being right there when I needed space for music.
The most promising issues to me have a review by Nancy Franklin, my favorite TV critic, and a review by Anthony Lane, one of my two favorite film critics (Josh Bell of Las Vegas Weekly is the other). This issue had both. All it needed to make it potentially perfect was a restaurant review by managing editor Amelia Lester, since she's the best at it. No luck. The review, of St. Anselm in Brooklyn, was by Hannah Goldfield, but now I will be looking for her name in these reviews just as much as Lester, because of a very funny three-quarters of a paragraph about the desserts offered at St. Anselm:
"St. Anselm (with whom Carroll's grandfather shared a name) was a Benedictine monk who made the first ontological argument for the existence of God. St. Anselm's dessert menu makes a less than convincing argument for the existence of a pastry chef. There is little appealing about a half-full jar of peanut butter surrounded by chunks of chocolate (unless, of course, you're stoned), and a plate of marshmallows, strawberries, and crumbled graham crackers drizzled in chocolate sauce looks like what happens when a four-year-old is left alone in a pantry."
Also stocked in this issue was an article about premature births and the methods taken to save babies who are prematurely born, a piece by David Sedaris about summers in the '60s spent on swim teams, and a profile of Jill Abramson, a veteran of The New York Times who was named the new executive editor.
This particular issue also served another purpose. Every day during the week, I have a purple index card next to me on the couch, and whenever I hear music I like on the Spa channel on XM Radio, I write it down and look it up either on YouTube or elsewhere to listen to it more closely and decide if it fits the desert soundtrack I'm creating (More details here: http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/09/desert-soundtrack.html).
The XM Radio in the living room was on when I came out after getting up at 11:20 this morning, and the mail came not long after, so I had this issue in front of me, but no purple index card with me. Two at the computer are still not all filled up, so I could have used those, but I didn't feel like getting them. Mom was on the computer anyway.
I had a pen with me for the purpose of circling those names that interest me in the "Contributors" section on page 2 to look up later (Their books especially), the plays that are listed under "The Theatre" that I want to read, if they're published, and anything else that I want to look up later, including references to some books in the Jill Abramson profile.
And then, while circling names in the "Contributors" section, I heard a flute piece that sounded familiar, that I probably had heard before on the Spa channel. I got up to see what it was, and it was, as listed, "The Dreams of Ch", by Shadowfax. I found out just now that the full title is "The Dreams of Children." It seemed like a bit of the desert to me when I heard it on XM. Listening to it now, it's less so, but it conjures up populated desert streets while driving to Henderson from Las Vegas, not far at all, and farmer's markets I've heard about in the area, that I want to go to.
Later, on page 34, in the middle of the piece about premature births, I heard "Fruits of the La" by Shinji Ishihara, very familiar to me. I hear this one at least twice a week on the Spa Channel. The full title, via YouTube, is "Fruits of the Land," and it feels like it fits the view of that ocean of desert seen from the large rock ledge near the Hacienda Hotel and Casino, the rippling of the heat that made it seem like it was coming closer and then receding, much like the actual ocean. Unfortunately, a search on Amazon and on Google reveals no way to download it. I need this in my desert soundtrack.
And so it went, also through page 44 ("Hakusha-Sonso" by Wall Matthews) and page 55 ("Come My Way" by William Aura). There are weeks when "The New Yorker" totally captivates me, and this came close with that first piece, David Sedaris' appearance, and the Jill Abramson profile. It rests on the steps to that Pantheon of New Yorker Perfection because of being right there when I needed space for music.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Late-Night Peace
It's yet another evening in which I've finished yet another book, Sixpence House: Lost in a Town of Books by Paul Collins. It's yet another evening in which I've started yet another book, Sleepless Nights by Sarah Bilston, the sequel to Bed Rest, which I read on Tuesday. And yet it's not just another night. If it were, there would be another day of my dad and Meridith going to work at La Mesa. But tonight backs up to tomorrow, Saturday, the weekend. The routine of the standard workweek is pushed away for two days. What shall we do? I need more bananas, but that's the extent of my weekend desires. Books are here, I've still got this week's episode of Hart of Dixie and four episodes of The Good Wife on the TiVo, and three questions comes to mind: Hart of Dixie and the season premiere of The Good Wife tonight? Or more of my Supreme Court hobby, watching the interview Charlie Rose conducted with retired Justice John Paul Stevens, and watching on YouTube what Stephen Breyer has had to say over the years? Or should I just chuck it all here in the living room, scurry to my room, and spend until 2 a.m. watching Travels with My Aunt for the fifth time, with one eye, while reading Sleepless Nights?
I don't know. And I'm content with not knowing, because I have what's left of Friday night, my favorite part of the week. In Pembroke Pines, Florida, coming back to our condo in Grand Palms toward a late Friday afternoon after Silver Trail Middle, and then Flanagan High, and then Hollywood Hills High, the sun took on this golden glow that was only apparent on that day, and it felt as if the universe was completely aligned, that everything in my piece of the world contributed to those moments after I got out of the car and noticed it and just stood there, amazed. Every time.
One of the only things I'll give Southern California credit for is that they know how to do sunsets. Every single sunset is special, no matter where you go, and there's one of those for every day of the week. I think it's because the sky seems wider here than it is in Florida. And it's not so much what the fading sunlight touches as it goes down (although it surprisingly gives depth to parts of Santa Clarita that have about as much depth as a frozen lake), but how it goes down. It looks like it hesitates, like it's not quite ready to go, but it knows that it has to because that's the way of the world, and it's slowly mulling over these opposite ends, while gradually accepting the inevitable. It must depart. The moon must rise.
I don't hold out much hope for weekends here. There's nothing we could possibly do that we haven't done already in eight years. And what we have done is either not worth doing again or in comparison to Las Vegas, well, it's not worth doing again. Plus, money for potential weekend excursions is best saved up for Vegas. Not to gamble necessarily (I'm a pussy gambler anyway, content with meditation of a kind at a penny slot machine, vegging out while the reels, real or computer graphics, spin), but to explore everything that our new home offers. Today was a minimum day at La Mesa, so Meridith had time to lounge online and told me on the phone that the Heart Attack Grill, which serves 8,000-calorie quadruple burgers, among other vastly unhealthy offerings, and was profiled on CBS Sunday Morning, opened on Wednesday at Neonopolis in Downtown Las Vegas (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2051593/Heart-Attack-Grill-Las-Vegas-serves-8-000-calorie-burger-meal.html). This opens, and I'm still waiting for a White Castle. Yet there's many changes in Vegas every day, always something new to see, and always places to go back to. And I've no complaints about the weekend here only bringing about bananas. It just builds me up for when we go back to Vegas, and once we get back there permanently.
Ever since I rediscovered my passion for books, and saw clearly that it's my life, I've felt more peaceful. Not just in knowing most of who I am now (I always leave 10-15% as room to grow), but in the complete, boundless pleasure of reading. I'm always excited by the truth that I will never run out of anything to read. For the rest of my life, I have such a wealth of books to choose from. And I'm ok with not being able to read everything, because I don't want to read everything. I know what my interests are, such as with the presidents and the Supreme Court, I know what I'm always curious about, such as vending machines, flea markets, and Vegas and Nevada history; I know that I enjoy writing in novels that pulls me in right away and keeps me in those worlds and for some time after I'm done, and I know that doesn't encompass all books. And it's easy that way.
Despite what the time stamp says on the bottom, Saturday is gaining on Friday with three minutes left until midnight. The house is silent, Mom and Dad asleep and probably Meridith too, and I have no idea where the dogs are. They're not anywhere in the living room, so they might be with Meridith. And here I am, content. Life's nice like this, and I won't let it take any other form.
I don't know. And I'm content with not knowing, because I have what's left of Friday night, my favorite part of the week. In Pembroke Pines, Florida, coming back to our condo in Grand Palms toward a late Friday afternoon after Silver Trail Middle, and then Flanagan High, and then Hollywood Hills High, the sun took on this golden glow that was only apparent on that day, and it felt as if the universe was completely aligned, that everything in my piece of the world contributed to those moments after I got out of the car and noticed it and just stood there, amazed. Every time.
One of the only things I'll give Southern California credit for is that they know how to do sunsets. Every single sunset is special, no matter where you go, and there's one of those for every day of the week. I think it's because the sky seems wider here than it is in Florida. And it's not so much what the fading sunlight touches as it goes down (although it surprisingly gives depth to parts of Santa Clarita that have about as much depth as a frozen lake), but how it goes down. It looks like it hesitates, like it's not quite ready to go, but it knows that it has to because that's the way of the world, and it's slowly mulling over these opposite ends, while gradually accepting the inevitable. It must depart. The moon must rise.
I don't hold out much hope for weekends here. There's nothing we could possibly do that we haven't done already in eight years. And what we have done is either not worth doing again or in comparison to Las Vegas, well, it's not worth doing again. Plus, money for potential weekend excursions is best saved up for Vegas. Not to gamble necessarily (I'm a pussy gambler anyway, content with meditation of a kind at a penny slot machine, vegging out while the reels, real or computer graphics, spin), but to explore everything that our new home offers. Today was a minimum day at La Mesa, so Meridith had time to lounge online and told me on the phone that the Heart Attack Grill, which serves 8,000-calorie quadruple burgers, among other vastly unhealthy offerings, and was profiled on CBS Sunday Morning, opened on Wednesday at Neonopolis in Downtown Las Vegas (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2051593/Heart-Attack-Grill-Las-Vegas-serves-8-000-calorie-burger-meal.html). This opens, and I'm still waiting for a White Castle. Yet there's many changes in Vegas every day, always something new to see, and always places to go back to. And I've no complaints about the weekend here only bringing about bananas. It just builds me up for when we go back to Vegas, and once we get back there permanently.
Ever since I rediscovered my passion for books, and saw clearly that it's my life, I've felt more peaceful. Not just in knowing most of who I am now (I always leave 10-15% as room to grow), but in the complete, boundless pleasure of reading. I'm always excited by the truth that I will never run out of anything to read. For the rest of my life, I have such a wealth of books to choose from. And I'm ok with not being able to read everything, because I don't want to read everything. I know what my interests are, such as with the presidents and the Supreme Court, I know what I'm always curious about, such as vending machines, flea markets, and Vegas and Nevada history; I know that I enjoy writing in novels that pulls me in right away and keeps me in those worlds and for some time after I'm done, and I know that doesn't encompass all books. And it's easy that way.
Despite what the time stamp says on the bottom, Saturday is gaining on Friday with three minutes left until midnight. The house is silent, Mom and Dad asleep and probably Meridith too, and I have no idea where the dogs are. They're not anywhere in the living room, so they might be with Meridith. And here I am, content. Life's nice like this, and I won't let it take any other form.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Book Jackets Off
I started O: A Presidential Novel by Anonymous a little after two this morning before going to bed, and I've spent most of today reading the majority of it (I've got 68 pages left). It's a nice, dreamy fantasy about Obama running for re-election against a Republican four-star general, former CEO of a defense contractor, and former governor who vows to run a civil campaign and sticks to it. Toward the end now, it's getting heavy on the Republican candidate's end, with his son getting involved against a belligerent reporter, but it's so nice to read about calm, measured campaigning as examined by former McCain speechwriter, Mark Salter, who was revealed to be its author. Pure fantasy, of course, though Salter has it right in some respects about Obama's shortcomings as president, but eventually does not let his fictional Republican candidate glide above the waters.
In the late morning, when I continued reading it, I became increasingly frustrated by the book jacket, this being a hardcover book, continually fitting it evenly on the covers. I finally took it off, I'll put it back on after I'm finished, and I've decided that for future hardcovers bearing book jackets, those are coming off too. I like to open a book and just read without that kind of annoyance.
In the late morning, when I continued reading it, I became increasingly frustrated by the book jacket, this being a hardcover book, continually fitting it evenly on the covers. I finally took it off, I'll put it back on after I'm finished, and I've decided that for future hardcovers bearing book jackets, those are coming off too. I like to open a book and just read without that kind of annoyance.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Mulling Over and Adjusting an Arrangement
I'm not intimidated nor pressured by the sheer number of books I have in my room, the 10 stacks across from the right side of my bed, the clustered stacks in front of my nightstand to the left of my bed. I'm always excited about the possibilities they present, and I like seeing the books I want to read soon. But I like some order in it, even though my organizational skills say otherwise since none of the stacks are really ramrod straight. Some are fierce competitors against gravity as they teeter at times. Some probably intend to tip over when I'm not looking, but they're just fearful of my glare.
The order that I seek is reading order. Before, I'd just pluck whatever book out of whatever stack that interested me. Finished with one, go back for another. Before that even, I'd have three or four books going which turned out not to be a good idea because even though I'd enjoy what I was reading, I'd never feel close to those books.
So I want to give equal attention to fiction and nonfiction, and I decided that I'll have one novel (or book of short stories) and one nonfiction book always at hand, and when I finish the novel, I'll move on to the nonfiction book, and back and forth. For example, yesterday I finished reading Bed Rest by Sarah Bilston, a novel about a British New Yorker ordered to bed rest for the final three months of her pregnancy and what transpires from it. Then I moved on to Like I Was Sayin'... by Mike Royko, a collection of his columns from 1966 to 1984, across The Daily News, the Chicago Sun-Times, and the Chicago Tribune. I replaced Bed Rest with O: A Presidential Novel by Anonymous (the author's identity was revealed not long after publication in January), about Obama's re-election campaign against Tom "Terrific" Morrison, a four-star general and one-term governor who is the Republican nominee for president, and though privately he does not like Obama, he vows to run a clean, civil campaign and sticks to it. In light of what the real-life Republicans are offering up as candidates, I'm going to read this and dream. After I finish Like I Was Sayin'..., I'll move on to this. And I'll replace Like I Was Sayin'... with Sixpence House: Lost in a Town of Books by Paul Collins, about he and his family moving from San Francisco to Hay-on-Wye, a small town in Wales, England which has 1,500 residents and forty bookstores. My kind of book, and though I'd be tempted to move to Hay-on-Wye just for the bookstores, I'm doing well enough on my own and I've got so much I want to accomplish in my own country anyway.
There are exceptions to this arrangement. Research for my presidential books and my 1930s Hollywood history book, and a few others, can go forth with as many nonfiction books as necessary. And today in the mail, I received, among other books, Oy Vey: More! - The Ultimate Book of Jewish Jokes Part 2 by David Minkoff, and Word of Mouth: Poems Featured on NPR's All Things Considered, edited by Catherine Bowman. Joke books and books of poems don't take me long to read, so they can drift by as often as I want to read them.
Though I tend to read nonfiction much more than fiction, there are authors such as Ann Beattie, Anne Tyler, and others who I want to get to know more, and this is the best arrangement for it. And since last week, I've felt much closer to my reading.
The order that I seek is reading order. Before, I'd just pluck whatever book out of whatever stack that interested me. Finished with one, go back for another. Before that even, I'd have three or four books going which turned out not to be a good idea because even though I'd enjoy what I was reading, I'd never feel close to those books.
So I want to give equal attention to fiction and nonfiction, and I decided that I'll have one novel (or book of short stories) and one nonfiction book always at hand, and when I finish the novel, I'll move on to the nonfiction book, and back and forth. For example, yesterday I finished reading Bed Rest by Sarah Bilston, a novel about a British New Yorker ordered to bed rest for the final three months of her pregnancy and what transpires from it. Then I moved on to Like I Was Sayin'... by Mike Royko, a collection of his columns from 1966 to 1984, across The Daily News, the Chicago Sun-Times, and the Chicago Tribune. I replaced Bed Rest with O: A Presidential Novel by Anonymous (the author's identity was revealed not long after publication in January), about Obama's re-election campaign against Tom "Terrific" Morrison, a four-star general and one-term governor who is the Republican nominee for president, and though privately he does not like Obama, he vows to run a clean, civil campaign and sticks to it. In light of what the real-life Republicans are offering up as candidates, I'm going to read this and dream. After I finish Like I Was Sayin'..., I'll move on to this. And I'll replace Like I Was Sayin'... with Sixpence House: Lost in a Town of Books by Paul Collins, about he and his family moving from San Francisco to Hay-on-Wye, a small town in Wales, England which has 1,500 residents and forty bookstores. My kind of book, and though I'd be tempted to move to Hay-on-Wye just for the bookstores, I'm doing well enough on my own and I've got so much I want to accomplish in my own country anyway.
There are exceptions to this arrangement. Research for my presidential books and my 1930s Hollywood history book, and a few others, can go forth with as many nonfiction books as necessary. And today in the mail, I received, among other books, Oy Vey: More! - The Ultimate Book of Jewish Jokes Part 2 by David Minkoff, and Word of Mouth: Poems Featured on NPR's All Things Considered, edited by Catherine Bowman. Joke books and books of poems don't take me long to read, so they can drift by as often as I want to read them.
Though I tend to read nonfiction much more than fiction, there are authors such as Ann Beattie, Anne Tyler, and others who I want to get to know more, and this is the best arrangement for it. And since last week, I've felt much closer to my reading.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Impatient for the End of October and Bits of November and December
I want the end of October to come already, October 27th precisely. That is when MTV will finally begin airing the return of Beavis & Butt-head. There will be both beloved dumbasses (My favorite is Beavis), there will be Cornholio, there will be my 10-year-old self next to me watching with glee (I remember Christmas Day 1996, I was 12, Dad was in New Jersey, and Mom took Meridith and I to the movies at GCC Coral Square Cinema 8. She went with Meridith to whatever they saw, and I fairly ran into the theater that was showing Beavis & Butt-Head Do America). The new thing for the show is that Beavis and Butt-head will not only be commenting on music videos. There will be clips of Jersey Shore for them to do proper justice to (One clip has one of the girls of Jersey Shore saying, "I'm a whore, hello!" and Butt-head remarks, "That's how she answers the phone."). And there will apparently also be clips from 16 and Pregnant and YouTube, the latter of which doesn't make sense to me because even though we're in a far more advanced technological age than when Beavis & Butt-head first aired, the two don't seem like the kind to use computers. Better that they keep on watching TV.
Why can't I have November 1st yet? I need it! James Garner's memoir, titled The Garner Files, is coming out. It being only 288 pages is a little disappointing at first, but I'm hoping that he spends a good number of pages talking about Maverick, The Rockford Files, and especially Victor/Victoria, one of my favorite comedies. It also has an introduction by Julie Andrews.
I'll trade you a few of my DVDs if I can have November 15th right away. Toward late September, I read in The New Yorker an excerpt by Ann Beattie of her forthcoming book, Mrs. Nixon: A Novelist Imagines a Life, and I went online right after and pre-ordered it on Amazon, since it squarely hit my passion for the history of the presidency and all those involved in it. Plus, it made me addicted to Beattie's writings, spurring me on to order her first short-story collection, Distortions, her first novel, Chilly Scenes in Winter, and The New Yorker Stories, a compilation of all the short stories Beattie wrote for The New Yorker.
Can someone please push November 22nd closer to me? Like pressed right up against me? 12 Angry Men is finally getting a proper DVD release as part of the Criterion Collection, which, in a two-disc set, includes Franklin J. Schaffner's 1955 TV production of Reginald Rose's play. There's also a TV production of Tragedy in a Temporary Town, which was written by Rose and directed by Sidney Lumet, who directed 12 Angry Men, and aired a year before 12 Angry Men was released in theaters. After this one, I'm hoping that Barfly, written by Charles Bukowski and starring Mickey Rourke, is released by the Criterion Collection.
And oh please oh please oh please oh please, someone just give me November 22nd right now, because scrolling through these pre-orders on Amazon, I just found out that Look I Made a Hat: Collected Lyrics (1981-2011) with Attendant Comments, Amplifications, Dogmas, Harangues, Digressions, Anecdotes and Miscellany by STEPHEN SONDHEIM, one of my heroes, is coming out on the same day, the second volume of his vastly detailed books of lyrics, the first being Finishing the Hat: Collected Lyrics (1954-1981) with Attendant Comments, Principles, Heresies, Grudges, Whines and Anecdotes which came out in late October last year.
And I think I want to see Tower Heist when it comes out in November, chiefly because of Alan Alda, but also because it looks funny. Nice to see Eddie Murphy back as the way he once was.
Why can't I have November 1st yet? I need it! James Garner's memoir, titled The Garner Files, is coming out. It being only 288 pages is a little disappointing at first, but I'm hoping that he spends a good number of pages talking about Maverick, The Rockford Files, and especially Victor/Victoria, one of my favorite comedies. It also has an introduction by Julie Andrews.
I'll trade you a few of my DVDs if I can have November 15th right away. Toward late September, I read in The New Yorker an excerpt by Ann Beattie of her forthcoming book, Mrs. Nixon: A Novelist Imagines a Life, and I went online right after and pre-ordered it on Amazon, since it squarely hit my passion for the history of the presidency and all those involved in it. Plus, it made me addicted to Beattie's writings, spurring me on to order her first short-story collection, Distortions, her first novel, Chilly Scenes in Winter, and The New Yorker Stories, a compilation of all the short stories Beattie wrote for The New Yorker.
Can someone please push November 22nd closer to me? Like pressed right up against me? 12 Angry Men is finally getting a proper DVD release as part of the Criterion Collection, which, in a two-disc set, includes Franklin J. Schaffner's 1955 TV production of Reginald Rose's play. There's also a TV production of Tragedy in a Temporary Town, which was written by Rose and directed by Sidney Lumet, who directed 12 Angry Men, and aired a year before 12 Angry Men was released in theaters. After this one, I'm hoping that Barfly, written by Charles Bukowski and starring Mickey Rourke, is released by the Criterion Collection.
And oh please oh please oh please oh please, someone just give me November 22nd right now, because scrolling through these pre-orders on Amazon, I just found out that Look I Made a Hat: Collected Lyrics (1981-2011) with Attendant Comments, Amplifications, Dogmas, Harangues, Digressions, Anecdotes and Miscellany by STEPHEN SONDHEIM, one of my heroes, is coming out on the same day, the second volume of his vastly detailed books of lyrics, the first being Finishing the Hat: Collected Lyrics (1954-1981) with Attendant Comments, Principles, Heresies, Grudges, Whines and Anecdotes which came out in late October last year.
And I think I want to see Tower Heist when it comes out in November, chiefly because of Alan Alda, but also because it looks funny. Nice to see Eddie Murphy back as the way he once was.
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