By the way, I am going to Bethesda tomorrow to hang out with the fam for Easter Weekend, so you probably won't hear much from me the next few days. My 88-year-old grandma is there, having gotten on a plane for the first time in at least a decade. It's always good to see her when I get a chance. Abby is in Costa Rica, or somewhere, so unfortunately we're missing one of the brood. When you have four cousins between the ages of twelve and twenty, it's rare that they are all in the house at the same time, so I'm glad for whoever I happen to catch.

Listen up, folks. If anyone out there decides they want to make my day, you might take a page from a dear friend of mine, who included this in today's e-mail:

So, for the record, you are a smart, sexy, bent, incredibly creative woman that any person would be lucky to know/employ/have sex with.

(though if you're related to me I might suggest that you leave out the sexy bits)

Add to that lovely sentiment a sunny, breezy, spring day in my beloved Brooklyn, and I was glowing all the way to yoga class. En route, a guy who looked remarkably like Snoop Doggy Dogg called me beautiful. Awww, shucks! I was in such a mood that once I got to yoga class and found out that yoga class had, in fact, been cancelled for Passover/Easter I didn't even mind.

So why, exactly, am I telling you this? I dunno. Why are you reading this?

By the way, you're beautiful!

Can I tell you how much I love the movie Moonstruck? I had never seen it before, and I rented it from Netflix. Netflix, because the handful of video stores in my neighborhood have bubkus for movies in any format, much less DVDs. Anyway, so I rented Moonstruck because I'd never seen it and it's set in Brooklyn, and why not? I love it! I've watched it like five times in the last two days. And I want to go find all of the locations, and go to the opera, and eat a lot of Italian food.

Oh Geez, don't they say celebrities always die in threes?

Loud Bob has actually been kind of quiet lately, but just now, blaring from the other side of the thin wall:

"Can a nigga get a table dance?!"

Good old Bob.

Best wishes for a happy Passover.

Yow, a doubly sad day for comedy:

RIP Milton Berle
RIP Dudley Moore

Please, someone buy this for me?

Hey cool...Barely Legal is back up. I was just poking around on Mike's new site design, and found that this little mini-film (by the lovely and talented John Tynes) in which I make an appearance has returned after having been dropped from the site briefly. Just click on the link above, then "Video," then scroll down to "Barely Legal." You'll need Quicktime to watch me try to explain how working at Amazon.com was like performing a sexual act on a disinterested partner. Pardon my bad hair.

The interesting thing about this little movie is how few people participated in it. It was filmed only a couple weeks after the layoffs were announced. Since our fairly impressive severance package would be awarded only if we completed the four months of work leading to the "termination date" (how Logan's Run), many of us were paranoid that Amazon would find some trumped-up reason to fire us prematurely so they could pocket the severance. As a result people were more afraid than ever to publicly dis the company. When Mike put out the call for laid-off workers to share their experiences, very few people were willing to speak on the record. I, always the media whore, stepped right up. But lest you think I was more brave than my peers, I remember making it very clear to Mike and John that I would steer clear of saying anything overtly nasty, or violate my Non-Disclosure Agreement (which, I believe, expires in October 2002). As such, the most interesting thing they got out of me is the dream which made it to the final film. I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille...

I went to see Monster’s Ball last night. Since I didn’t manage to see all of the major Oscar ^TM nominees before the awards, I might as well try to see at least the winners afterwards. The good thing is that this means I won’t have to see I Am Sam.

So, after a solid month of obsessing over who would win, who should win, and what they might wear, this holiday season is over. The big story, of course, is Halle Berry’s sort-of surprise win. I hadn’t seen her in much, but based on her performance in X-Men (less “Storm” than “Lukewarm Puddle”) I thought she was overrated. Monster’s Ball, however, is a different story. Her totally involving and fearless presence did nothing less than carry the movie--you couldn’t help but watch her every move onscreen. Her chemistry with Billy Bob Thornton was both electric and disturbing, and arguments that she was too pretty for the role are just plain silly. Truly in all ways it was an Oscar^TM-worthy performance, and good for her for managing to come up with an eloquent speech while losing her freaking mind onstage.

Plus, she had the best dress of the whole night. It was bold and elegant, and that gorgeous shade of ruby-red was divine. Which, by the way, cannot be said for her competitor Nicole Kidman. What happened to Nic’s ultra-glam fashion choices? And that hair? She was so pale and washed-out she threatened to disappear entirely. Not good for a star in her prime. Go put some color on, missy.

Other fashion misfires come mostly down to the “saggy boob” trend. I suggest adopting this simple rule: If they don’t stand up by themselves, wear a damn bra. This means you, Gwyneth Paltrow, Jennifer Connelly, and Kirsten Dunst!

What the hell happened to Jennifer Lopez? I’ll tell you what happened, she got married. I can’t imagine why this should make a difference (except for when Marilyn Monroe wed puritanical tyrant Joe DiMaggio), but ever since J. Lo took her booty off the market she’s been nothing but a fashion don’t. Her dress was just okay, and that Jane Fonda bouffant wasn’t even cool when Jane wore it. I found it actually painful to look at her. [Who would have thought that I could be this bitchy while wearing an overlarge t-shirt and pajama bottoms, eh? Thank God for the Internet.]

Back to the nominees: My guesses weren’t too bad, eh? I guess I should have stayed with my original prediction of Julian Fellowes winning for Gosford Park, but I still managed to eke out 11 out of 15 correct. Okay, maybe that’s only a C... I’ll be the first to admit that making Oscar^TM predictions is silly—unless there is cash involved—but harmless fun.

As far as the broadcast itself, I was really surprised. I found it the most entertaining, funniest Oscar^TM telecast in my memory. I was surprised to find out it was over four hours long, because I didn’t feel that it dragged at all, except for the commercials, of course (that “Bachelor” show is just offensive. When are they going to have a show with 25 nubile, hot young men in bathing suits humiliating themselves to win the affections of an average-looking middle-aged woman? I’d watch that). Okay, the honorary Oscar presentations (along with the Humanitarian award) always go on longer than they should, but what are you going to do? Tell Sidney Poitier to hurry it up? Actually, I’d rather cut down on the introductory speeches (anything to keep the embalmed-looking Ryan O’Neal and Ali McGraw off the stage), but the film tributes—particularly the one for Poitier—were very nice.

I LOVED that they eliminated the tradition of playing the "best song" nominees throughout the show with overlong, cheesy dance numbers. Playing shorter, simple versions all at once was brilliant. The screenwriters’ descriptions of technical categories were a neat new addition, particularly Buck Henry’s description of make-up. I would have preferred to see the writers themselves deliver the lines and not the presenters, however.

Whoopi was a good host. Billy Crystal is still my favorite, but most of her jokes were funny and she did a good job keeping the show moving. Also her outfits were gorgeous—the black dress with differently-colored shawls and jewelry was much classier than throwing her into wildly different ensembles every five minutes.

But as for the very, very best moment of this year’s Oscars^TM, or indeed any year’s? Jello-freaking-Biafra! In case you missed it, that was him screaming “No wire hangers ever!!” in Errol Morris’s what-I-like-about-the-movies film at the beginning of the show. Jello Biafra--and Iggy Pop!--on the Oscars^TM--there’s something beautiful about that!

Wait, wait! Can I change my decisions? I obviously spend way too much time thinking about this.

Best Director: Okay, in truth Ron Howard will win for A Beautiful Mind if that picture nabs a win from Lord of the Rings. I just think the Academy will have to agree that for all it's actorly fun, Gosford Park was too technically shabby to reward it for this prize.

Best Supporting Actor: This is hardest for me because I haven't seen most of the nominees. But I'm going to go out on a limb and say that Ben Kingsley will win for Sexy Beast, and I'll also give my "hope for" vote to Ian McKellen for Lord of the Rings. I was feeling guilty for giving props to Jim Broadbent for his other work, and really McKellen did a mighty fine Gandalf, anyway.

Okay that's it, really. But I reserve my right to change votes until broadcast time.

Here it is, barely twenty-four hours before my favorite holiday, Oscar^TM night. You might well ask, “Why Oscar^TM? Everyone knows that the best movies are overlooked, and even the best nominees tend to be snubbed. Everyone knows that nobody wins when they should, and often win when they shouldn’t. Everyone knows that the election (like most elections) is dominated by politics, gossip, bad-mouthing, and whoever can buy the largest ads in Variety. Everyone knows that the telecast is overlong, yet it is always the thank-you speeches that get trimmed instead of the torturous musical sequences or the painful “banter” between tipsy presenters. Why should anyone pay attention to this crap, much less spend precious hours mulling over sample ballots?

I have three reasons. First, I dearly love a spectacle. Second, the outfits: oohing over the good ones and howling over the bad ones. Third, there is always the chance that someone worthy will squeak by with an award--Steven Soderbergh, say--or, uh, well I’m sure I’ll think of someone else.

Since I made my knee-jerk predictions just after the nominees were announced (see Feb. 14), I have seen the remaining four of the Best Picture nominees, but unfortunately nothing more. Based on that shaky information, I have a new list of those I think will win, in addition to those I hope will win. Where applicable, I've also included my earlier predictions:

Best Picture
Think Will Win: A Beautiful Mind
Hope Will Win: Moulin Rouge
Feb. Prediction: A Beautiful Mind
Frankly, I don’t think any of them really deserve it. I felt all the nominees were flawed in some way (Gosford Park’s murky sound and visuals, In the Bedroom’s disappointing third act), which rendered them not great but merely well done. I almost picked Lord of the Rings as my “hope will win” choice, but I cannot forget that even as I was nail-biting through Moria, I was also looking at my watch. Moulin Rouge was the only film in this bunch that truly transported me to its Technicolor world, while the commitment of the actors transcended the silly story—and that was on the small screen. Also, I would feel remiss if I didn't note that A Beautiful Mind has gotten a bad rap of late (which might serve to push Lord of the Rings into the winning spot). Yes, it is a soppy Hollywood movie, but I found my distaste for it ran more from the type of film Ron Howard and the producers chose to make, rather than the execution of their vision. As soppy Hollywood films go, Howard did an admirable job making the movie he wanted to make, even if I might argue that it didn’t need making.

Best Director
Think Will Win: Robert Altman, Gosford Park
Hope Will Win: Peter Jackson, Lord of the Rings
Feb. Prediction: Robert Altman, Gosford Park
Altman has the edge for the sympathy vote for his contribution to the medium (and the chance to reward Jackson for one of the next two Rings films). But clearly, of this year's nominees, Jackson’s was the strongest achievement.

Actor
Think Will Win: Denzel Washington, Training Day
Hope Will Win: Denzel Washington, Training Day
Feb. Prediction: Russell Crowe/Denzel Washington
I thought Crowe might bring home Oscar #2 this year, but now I think the Academy might—however unfairly—wish to avoid awarding someone with a dodgy reputation so generously. Also, his performance might annoy people as much as amaze them, depending on how you like your on-screen loonies. Though I haven’t seen I Am Sam or Ali, this just feels like Denzel’s year. I haven’t seen Training Day either, but I like the idea of someone winning for an unlikable character in a genre movie.

Actress
Think Will Win: Sissy Spacek, In the Bedroom
Hope Will Win: Renee Zellweger, Bridget Jones’s Diary
Feb. Prediciton: Nicole Kidman, Moulin Rouge
I withdraw my previous slam-dunk prediction for Nicole Kidman. She’s still a possibility, but her performance was just too slight to compete with such heavyweights as Judi Dench and Spacek. As far as my “hope for” choice, I truly think Zellweger was dead-on marvelous as Bridget Jones. And it’s about time the Academy recognizes that comedic performances can be just as challenging and revealing as going bughouse nuts or dropping dead. Go Renee.

Supporting Actor
Think Will Win: Ian McKellen, Lord of the Rings
Hope Will Win: Jim Broadbent, Iris
If the Academy chooses McKellen’s lovely but unremarkable performance as Gandalf based on the times that he should have won before (Gods and Monsters, anyone?), then why not award Jim Broadbent because he turned out two other truly great performances this year—in Moulin Rouge and Bridget Jones’s Diary?

Supporting Actress
Think Will Win: Jennifer Connelly, A Beautiful Mind
Hope Will Win: Helen Mirren, Gosford Park
As much as I’d love to see Marisa Tomei win as a big “fuck you” to all of her detractors, if I had a vote I’d give it to Mirren, who was so subtle and touching in her role, and tends to be unfairly overlooked in favor of Maggie Smith’s more showy (but one-note) role in the same film. Not to slight Jennifer Connelly, but I think she can do better, and will.

Adapted Screenplay
Think Will Win: Akiva Goldman, A Beautiful Mind
Hope Will Win: Daniel Clowes and Terry Zwigoff, Ghost World
Feb. Prediction: Akiva Goldman, A Beautiful Mind
The media-created controversy over Beautiful’s factual inaccuracy is a non-issue. The criticism of the first third as “ludicrous” just shows that people either didn’t get or didn’t like the clever storytelling device. As screenplays go, I think you could do worse. But oh, Ghost World is such a triumph in all things wonderful. What kind of incantation can I do to make it win? Dye my hair green and play a lot of Ramones records? I’ll do it!!

Original Screenplay
Think Will Win: Christopher Nolan, Memento
Hope Will Win: Christopher Nolan, Memento
Feb. Prediction: Christopher Nolan, Memento
I marked my Entertainment Weekly Oscar Ballot^TM with Julian Fellowes taking the top prize for Gosford Park, but I’ve reconsidered. I just don’t think the Academy can completely ignore the extraordinary structure and intricacy of 2001’s most interesting film. The editing trophy it might win isn’t enough, and frankly Gosford’s murder-mystery plot isn’t all that fascinating, truth be told.

Best Animated Feature
Think Will Win: Shrek
Hope Will Win: Monsters, Inc.
Feb. Prediction: Shrek
It still puzzles me why Monsters didn’t seem to connect with as many people as Shrek, but perhaps that film’s legions of fans can’t understand why Mike Myers’ green ogre left me cold. But the real winner in this category is Richard Linklater’s brilliant Waking Life, which is the most baffling snub of all Oscar^TM snubs.

In the “lesser” races, I have Lord of the Rings taking home trophies for Cinematography, Visual Effects, Score, Art Direction and Makeup. Moulin Rouge may have it’s only shoo-in with Costume Design, but I secretly hope it pulls Art Direction away from an awards-laden Rings.

Has the world gone completely fucking insane????

My sister is here (not right here at the moment, actually. She’s off “partying” or whatever the kids do these days) so it’s been theater-intensive the last few days. I love that people visit me; otherwise I might never go to museums or see Broadway shows.

Tuesday night we saw The Crucible, starring Liam Neeson and Laura Linney as the heroic Proctors. The staging was really cool, and Neeson was every bit the “Force of Nature” shouted by the theater’s marquee. Plus he takes his shirt off. Recommended.

Tonight we managed to get second-row seats to Proof, the 2001 Pulitzer and Tony-winning play starring Jennifer Jason Leigh. Funny that mathematics and madness seem to be the two great tastes that taste great together these days. I just wish this thing could take the place of The Russell Crowe Twitching and Drooling Show in the Oscar race, but never mind. Melanie pointed out that the basic story and character types weren’t all that original, but the mathematics framework was a nice addition (ha ha). Leigh got to play the sort of broken-voiced wounded indie-girl-with-integrity she always, always, always plays—which she does very well. I was really impressed with Seana Kofoed, not only because her name must be the most difficult to pronounce in show business, but because she played a note-perfect prissy Manhattan career gal that you love to hate. Josh Hamilton was also very satisfying as the geeky boyfriend, although he did not remove any garments.

Monday night we took in a rehearsal of Mike’s show, 21 Dog Years. That was a real test, too. I think some people might wonder if they never had any direct connection with Amazon.com or the dot-com world, if this show would have anything to say to them. Well, Melanie is a 20-year-old musical theater major who has never had an office job in her life and she enjoyed it, so there you go.

Afterwards I told Mike that I felt more of a personal connection with the show this time. I’ve seen it three or four times now, but I think this is the first since I left Amazon.com, and the distance is significant. Mike told me that after the first time I saw 21 Dog Years (opening night, a little over a year ago, in Seattle) I made a point of telling him I didn’t agree with his opinions, but I still liked the show. It sounds incredible to me now, but knowing where my head was at the time (freshly laid-off for the first time in my life, in charge of creating a training program for my replacements and waking every day with the gnawing fear that any slip-up would cause me to lose my severance pay), I can see why I would have said something like that.

The show is certainly laugh-out-loud-roll-on-the-floor hilarious, don’t get me wrong, but it seems more poignant now--and that’s appropriate. After all, the dot-com bubble has burst. When the show premiered it was still the early days of a floundering industry. Many of us still thought, hoped, that this was just a little glitch, a dip, a trend that would bounce back. This couldn’t be the “Amazon.bomb” that was predicted in some business magazine back in 1997—an article which was subject to much ridicule in meetings for years. Now that nervous uncertainty has become a nationwide depression. We who were caught in the maelstrom of the boom and bust now have to face the question that many of us have put out of our minds since college: now what do I do?

Most people I know who have recently been laid off—all tech or dot-com, it should be noted—tend to agree that being laid off was the worst, best thing to happen to them. We are all in some way relieved to be out of that environment. Yet now we’re faced with the prospect of either trying to make a go of some artistic or academic skill we hope we haven’t lost, or going right back to the sort of office environment we were just “liberated” from—but without the friends we made there. It’s not easy to carry on.

Perhaps it’s appropriate that this show will play in New York, rather than Seattle or San Francisco. New York, known as being the most resilient of our major metropolitan areas, has been wounded in an unimaginable way, and now struggles under truly frightening levels of unemployment and untested leadership. As such, Mike’s play speaks to not only the loss of the company that would make corporate culture safe for artists, but to all of the illusions that shattered in the last couple of years: that we are safe, that our President really cares, that elections are free and that corporations can’t buy power using their own workers’ money. Far from being outdated, 21 Dog Years’s insight into the effects of dot-com life is a look into the sleepwalking dreams that we’re simultaneously glad and terrified to wake from.

But he doesn’t take his shirt off.

So Gia has left me; she is back in the skies, hurtling toward Seattle. Sigh. It was great having her here, like having my own vacation from the vacation that has become my life. Looking back on the week, it seems to me that it was remarkably well paced and planned, despite the fact that it wasn’t planned at all, really. All I knew was that Gia wanted to see museums, and she hadn’t been in New York for ten years, so I was perfectly willing to defer to whatever she wanted to do. If or when she ran out of ideas, I hoped to have enough of an arsenal of interesting destinations (despite the fact that I rarely go anywhere myself) to keep us entertained. It worked out rather well, I think.

Fortunately enough, I barely have time to think about getting back to my solitary lifestyle—forget job-hunting—because now my little sister is coming to visit! She’s on spring break from her last semester of college, and I’ll be putting her up for at least a couple of days. I’m looking forward to it. Not only is it always great to see her, but it was not so long ago (October 2000, in fact) that she and I were vacationing in NYC, on the first trip we’d taken together. We shared a room in Chelsea and spent most of our four-day trip at the Times Square TKTS booth or in some Broadway theater or other. It will be interesting to see how this trip is different (cheaper lodging, for starters).

But back to Gia’s visit. I am happy to see that I was able to resurrect my Thursday entry, below—Blogger.com was acting up that afternoon, causing me no end of consternation. It was a beautiful day, and by afternoon I was feeling antsy that I wasn’t outside enjoying it. Thankfully Gia called and I met her in Astor place so we could sightsee in the East Village. While doing so, we inadvertently ran right into the tenement where Gia stayed with friends the last time she was in town a decade ago. We then indulged in scrumptious curry at my favorite Indian place on 6th St. Again at a loss of what to do that night (woe to the early-thirtysomethings who have no interest in getting drunk or spending a lot of money after 6pm in Manhattan), we decided to finally see In the Bedroom, which we had both been talking about. We dashed uptown and saw the movie (we were both disappointed in the film, if not the wonderful performances), and then wandered through the Disneyland-Hell that is Times Square during prime time. Gia was pleased with her first visit to Times Square, and we were still in bed by a decent hour.

The next day, Friday, was Gia’s birthday, and lacking any smooth way of unveiling my birthday surprise for her, I just told her to pack everything she needed for the next 24-to-36 hours. Thankfully she had packed very light for the trip, so I ended up having more luggage than she did. As we had planned earlier, we subway’d up to Harlem for a soul-food brunch at Amy Ruth’s, which was even more delectable than I remembered (diet? What diet?). We left in actual pain, and still had a stack of leftovers.

Gia didn’t know where we were headed and it probably added to the mystery that the subway skipped our stop unexpectedly (“I was just waiting for that to happen,” she said), and we had to backtrack to 59th Street. Finally we got to our stop, and I navigated until we got to an unlabeled entryway bathed in chartreuse neon. “I think this is it,” I announced, and we entered. Once inside, we were faced only with a steep escalator surrounded by the same chartreuse lighting, and no signage. I joked that if we were in the wrong place, the worse they could do was throw us out. We went up the escalator and were faced with a mahogany lobby, covered with ivy which snaked across a high skylight. Deep leather chairs were mated with semi-kitschy lamps made of faux (I hope) antlers. The juxtaposition of the modernistic neon with the hunting-lodge earth tones was strangely pleasing, so I walked up to the front desk and asked, “Is this the Hudson?”

I don’t remember the first I learned of Hudson, but I think it was around the time my sister and I were planning our vacation to NYC a year and a half ago. It was a more innocent time, when I thought my Amazon.com career was stable, and the World Trade Center still existed. I had seen articles in In Style magazine and the like about this brand new super-chic NYC hotel, with its Philippe Starck furnishings and celebrities clamoring to be seen at the futuristic bar. I think my friend Alex even suggested that we stay there. It looked really cool, all right, but besides the expense, I would feel about as comfortable there as I would in Twilo (the now-defunct ultra hip nightclub of the time). I may be OK-looking, but I am not one of the Beautiful People, if you follow.

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago. I had heard of a deal for discounted hotel rates, and I was actually looking to see if I could get a cheaper rate on a room in Indianapolis for the Star Wars Celebration this May. When that turned out to be a wash, I decided to check their New York offerings, just on a lark. When Hudson turned out to be one of the choices, I suddenly came upon the idea of what I could give Gia for her birthday—a night in a sleekly designed urban fashion-palace (and, of course, I would selfishly come along to keep her company).

So, there we were, checking into our tiny room. I couldn’t get two beds, or even a King, for the discounted rate, but it was clear we could comfortably fit into the Queen without having to snuggle. I told Gia that when I called the hotel to confirm the reservation, I had tried to get a different bed option. The reservations clerk wondered why I needed a bigger bed, and I explained, “There are two of us, and we’re not--you know--together.” “OH!” exclaimed the clerk, comprehension dawning. But when she told me it would be $135 to upgrade, I told her we’d just be friendly.

Gia, the burgeoning designer, was impressed with the room. It was done in the same dark wood as the lobby, with bright chrome accents and the bed as a big fluffy white cloud in the middle of the room. She explained that this was a great example of a classic design trick, whereby putting one large light-colored piece of furniture in the middle of the room makes the room appear larger. There was a fun backlight behind the headboard, and a beautiful modern basin sink in the closet-sized bathroom. Gia’s favorite touch, though, had to be the peek-a-boo shower. The shower stall (and, thus, the entire bathroom) was separated from the bedroom by a clear pane of glass. The options were to shower in full view of the room’s occupants, draw the sheer curtain for a more subtle effect, or close the shower’s opaque curtain for ultimate modesty. Though we made sure to close the privacy curtain any time we attended to bathroom business, Gia had great fun leaping into the dry shower, fully clothed, to go-go dance at every opportunity.

After settling in, admiring the view, and resting to allow our enormous brunch to digest, our friend Nell showed up to take us lingerie shopping. From the too-much-information dept: All of us had realized at some point or other in our lives that finding a bra that fits really well is not an easy task. Nell had discovered a place in the Upper West Side that specialized in such fittings, and Gia and I were eager to experience the joy of a perfect bra. I won’t reveal the intimate details, but I will report that, apparently, I’m two cup sizes larger than I thought I was. I joked that my newly-discovered size now sounded so impressive I wanted to wear a nametag that cheerily read: HI, I’M 34-D! I still don’t know that I really believe it, despite now owning the best-fitting (if not the world’s most attractive) undergarment of my adult life. As a bonus, it wasn’t any more expensive than most of my ill-fitting Victoria’s Secret finds.

Back at our hotel, we decided to go down for a drink before the bar got overloaded with Friday night out-and-abouters—even though Thursday is reportedly the new Friday, I figured the end of the typical work-week still means something to most Manhattanites. However, I wanted to wear the new shoes I bought with Gia a couple days previous, which required a complete outfit change. This didn’t take long, but by the time we made it back to the lobby, all the seating at the bar was taken. From the photos I’d seen, I remembered the Hudson bar as being a perfect replica of the “white room” set at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case at all, though it was clearly inspired by that aesthetic. The floor was made of fluorescent-lit squares, as if Michael Jackson had come in from his “Billie Jean” video and danced all over the place. The furniture was an odd collection of 18th century-inspired styles and a continuation of the lobby’s bizarro hunting-lodge motif—in particular, a couple of large benches fashioned like rough logs with dainty chair-backs embedded into them. We found a large leather armchair just outside the bar entrance, and so we perched there until the waitress brought us extra chairs. We discovered we were set right at the top of the escalator coming up from the main entrance, so we exchanged plenty of looks with arriving tourists as well as the hipsters coming up for a few drinks—no celebrities though.

I’m never good at choosing a drink when faced with a bartender. I don’t have a signature cocktail, much as I’ve tried to develop a taste for a particular variety. I end up standing there, dazed, trying to remember the various names of cocktails I’ve either had or read about somewhere. Basic well drinks (i.e. vodka tonic, whiskey sour) all seem too boring; particularly at a fancy bar, but I’m not all that well versed in beverages with clever names. Finally I decided on a Cosmopolitan, correctly guessing that this was the pretty pink thing being ingested by a handful of folks at the bar. After we settled at our seats, I realized that I hadn’t had an alcoholic beverage for many weeks, and Hudson wasn’t about to skimp on the devil juice in my Cosmo—especially considering the $11 price tag. After two drinks each (I changed to a Salty Dog for my second), we all were feeling giggly and sleepy—and it wasn’t even 10 o’clock yet! We’re pathetic. We all stumbled up to our room and chatted for a while before Nell decided to head home. Realizing we hadn’t eaten since brunch, Gia and I nibbled on our leftovers from Amy Ruth’s, which quickly satisfied us, gazed out the window at 9th Avenue traffic and talked for what seemed like a long time. I had a fitful night, often waking up feeling queasy. I thought that perhaps late night chowing on un-refrigerated leftovers wasn’t a great idea, and feared food poisoning. The next day, Gia said she also felt nauseated, but insisted that it was the alcohol. After my hard-drinking Amazon days (which, to be truthful, would still be considered lightweight by most of my peers), I refused to believe that two cocktails were enough to give me the spins. I didn’t get food poisoning, though, so I think Gia was right.

The night before we had decided on one more indulgence: room-service breakfast. During hotel stays in the past, I’ve wanted to order breakfast on one of those hangtags that you put on your doorknob at night so that I could wake up to home-delivery, but never did. The prices are, naturally, ridiculous. However, we decided that splitting a $20.00 continental breakfast was within our limits. The menu was a little confusing. We both thought that the breakfast would include a hot beverage, “a selection of pastries,” juice and a choice of either strawberries or raspberries. When morning came, however, the raspberries were nowhere in sight and our “selection” of pastries were merely two croissants--albeit perfectly fine ones. The meager breakfast was tasty, but it did feel pretty insane to pay $20 plus tax plus gratuity PLUS delivery charge. Gia insisted on paying, though I would only allow her to give me $20.

We checked out and had the hotel keep our bags while we headed downtown to meet Nell at Canal St. It was cloudy but unseasonably warm when we left the hotel, so we dressed very light. By the time we got downtown, however, there was a slight chill in the air, which only increased as the day wore on. Undaunted, we met Nell, grabbed a more substantial breakfast and spent the day window-shopping through Soho. This was as much a treat for me as it was for Gia, as I’m not all that familiar with Soho. Since Nell used to work there, she was a fabulous tour guide, and we did all the appropriate girly things, like ogling shoes and playing with makeup at the MAC store. Between the three of us, we bought very little, which proves that recreational shopping doesn’t have to be expensive. As the afternoon wore into evening, we decided that Tex-Mex sounded mighty fine for dinner (diet? Who said anything about a diet?), so we ended up at Cowgirl Hall of Fame in the West Village—another neighborhood I had not yet discovered. Nell knew one of the waitresses there, so we were treated with particular care and friendliness. Our waiter mentioned out that they were filming a TV show there, and lo and behold we spied a young couple in the corner who were very attractively lit (up-lighting, it works wonders), and a surprisingly unobtrusive woman filming them with what looked like a digital video camera. The waiter thought it was Change of Heart, which basically encourages couples to break up on the air. I kept an eye out for a spontaneous make-out session or a bitter argument, but it seemed like nothing more or less than an innocuous first date. Oh well.

And that was that! After being up too late chatting, I blearily accompanied Gia to Penn Station this morning to see her off. It’s nice to have some “off” time, yet I really enjoyed her visit and will miss her. I am glad that we filled the time well, Gia got to do all the things she really wanted to (plus more she hadn’t thought of), and I got to know the city a little better. Though I am really, really broke now, I am looking forward to Melanie’s visit to keep me from going immediately back to normal. Although my seitan-and-soybeans diet pretty much went out the window, I think I probably made up for it with all the walking we did. And to my credit at least I still haven’t succumbed to the lure of coffee or soda. I’m looking forward to cooking again, once I can afford to go grocery shopping!

Leave it to good ol' Lincoln, Nebraska to be at the forefront of modern art.

Speaking of art, I've seen an awful lot of it in the last few days. Since Sunday Gia and I have toured the Brooklyn Art Museum, MOMA, The Metropolitan Museum of Art (six hours there), and the Guggenheim. I had to send Gia off on her own today to tackle the Whitney and the Frick--I'm overloaded, plus they're expensive. It's been very cool, but hard to absorb the sheer enormity of exceptional work. Gia remarked that every painting we saw in MOMA's permanent collection was so famous, she wondered if they were famous just because they were in MOMA.

It was there that we spent a great deal of time at the Gerhard Richter exhibit--my favorite of the bunch so far. Throughout his 40-year (and ongoing) career he has done colorful, splashy abstracts as well as super-realistic work--yet distorted, like blurry photographs (most famous, perhaps, is his cover of Sonic Youth's Daydream Nation album). He also did a series of monochromatic gray abstracts, just using different textures. It reminds you that you really cannot understand art like this by looking in pictures in a book, particularly the abstracts. The whole experience of it is seeing the brush-strokes and the thickness of the paint.

We've been so pooped after standing and staring all day long, that we haven't had much of a nightlife. The closest we've come to going out was Tuesday; we saw Monsoon Wedding (good!) after resting our tired toes and sharing tapenade at Halcyon in Carroll Gardens. Oh yes, and yesterday afternoon we bought shoes. Nothing says gal-bonding like shoe shopping in the rain.

Pat forwards the unfortunate news that the universe is not mint green after all. He says this "makes more sense." My question is, do either of them make sense?

Thanks anyway, Patrick!

Hey folks--my pal Gia is coming to town tomorrow, so likely I won't update anything here--nor get e-mail--for about a week. Yeah, I know, you're devastated. For God's sake get over it. But I do care, honest. Here's something fun to do while I'm away:

Dress George Bush

Don't forget I love you, you little muffin.

Here's an important public service message for you (thanks, Brian):

Please...click here

On a related note, I want the world to know that Marilyn Manson loves his kitty cat.

My affection for Marilyn Manson has always been linked to my obsession with Hanson. They both hit the heights of their mainstream popularity at the same time, more or less, and each band was posited in the press as anti- the other band. This all came to a head with reports in the spring of 1998 that there would be a Hanson/Manson collaboration on the South Park Chef Aid soundtrack album, which was in the works at the time. I loved the idea, it would be the perfect thing for both of them. According to most sources, it was Manson who got cold feet and scuttled the deal.

In interviews, Manson dismissed Hanson as happy music for happy people--while MM, of course, represented precisely the opposite. Taylor Hanson retorted that Manson was "actually more of an actor." Still, the comments going both directions were fairly good-natured; I like to think that they too were amused by the paradox of their back-to-back popularity.

And now, again, they are poised to burst back upon the scene at the same time. Both are hard at work on albums in Los Angeles studios, after a long break since their last commercially-disappointing releases. I am crossing fingers that both records will come out near the same time, and both bring waves of renewed vigor to both careers. Now, more than ever, the world needs Marilyn Hanson!

I took my first proactive step in finding a job in over nine months of unemployment--I called a temp agency yesterday. They were very friendly, but it sounded like they get a lot of calls like mine. They said they have quite a backlog now (because everyone in New York City is looking for a job) so it may be a little while before they can call me, but I could go ahead and FAX them my resume. I haven't sent the FAX, because I have some tweaking to do on the resume yet. I intend to get that taken care of by the end of the week. Then Gia comes to visit for a week, so maybe they won't call me until after she leaves (if, indeed they call at all...)

I realized today that I've never really had to work at finding a job before. I've had periods of sending in resumes, but often I knew, or suspected, that the jobs for which I was applying weren't really right. And, as expected, I never heard anything from them. However, when I saw an ad for a job I eventually got (or after someone told me about it), I just knew it was the right job. So the whole process of applying and interviewing was relatively stress-free, because somehow I just knew it would work out. My last two jobs in Seattle were like that, but then again I got them during economic boom years (1995 and 1997). When I was going through my work file recently, I saw the resume I sent in for the Matchmaker, and it was a laughable disaster. I was so worried about getting it on one page I put it in a really tiny font, and you could hardly read it. The cover letter had a typo, and was about three times longer than a cover letter should be. Yet I got the job. I think that's why I'm being so lackadaisical about this whole process. I feel, perhaps foolishly, that when it comes time that I REALLY want a job, or really NEED a job, I will find a way to make it happen. It may take longer than I've been used to (because, again, there are no jobs here. None. Really.) But it will happen.

Just not today! :)

Weird sort of coincidence...

I was just watching Michael Moore's series "The Awful Truth" on DVD, the first season, 1999. I have owned this set for a while, but hadn't watched most of the episodes before. I decided to finally get to them this evening, since I'm quite happy to have a DVD player again. Well, in one sequence (Episode 11), Michael interviews a bunch of New Yorkers to try to find a better husband for Hillary Rodham Clinton. One of the seven or eight men he interviews is a handsome, youngish fireman. I notice that behind him, the two fire trucks are labeled "40" and "35." With a chill I remembered an article in the March 2002 issue of Vanity Fair which tells a moving tale of a Manhattan fire station which lost all but one of its men that were on duty the morning of September 11. It was engine company 40, ladder 35. I picked up my copy of Vanity Fair, and turned to the page which shows a photo of each of the 12 men lost that day. Unmistakably, the guy chuckling onscreen about a perfect date with the first lady consisting of satin sheets and Viagra is Steve Mercado. His face is smiling on page 258 of Vanity Fair, and he's dead.

I wonder if Michael Moore knows?

I think The Eye of Argon is what happens if you give a non-English-speaking twelve-year-old a thesaurus and a stack of old "Conan" reruns. The sad thing is, I bet a lot more people will read this than anything I'll ever write (thanks to Mike for unearthing these gems for the rest of us).

OW. I hurt. I made it to yoga yesterday, finally. I saw a flyer for a nearby yoga studio on a telephone pole a few weeks ago, and it turns out the place is brand new. I was the only person in my class, but thankfully this was not the fault of the very capable and kind instructor, Cathy. She led me through a thorough series of mostly familiar poses, making sure I was properly aligned and remembered to breathe once in a while. Anyone out there who thinks that yoga isn't a workout just because you're not pounding your legs into the floor or your fists into the air has never done it properly. At the end my whole body felt like over-cooked spaghetti, and this morning I was so sore I could hardly move. I can't wait to go back!

The DVD player arrived (fanfare). Which means that not only will I never get a job, I probably will stop blogging altogether and become one with my easy chair. OK, no, I do have more self-discipline than that. Sort of. For my Panasonic's inaugural rental, I picked up Moulin Rouge as part of my quest to see as many of the Oscar^TM nominees as I can.

The verdict? Wonderful film! I really enjoyed it. I wasn't sure I would, because the fans who are the most worshipful of Moulin Rouge also seem to be die-hard devotees of stage musicals. I'm sort of iffy on stage musicals -- I find the majority of them to be too formulaic and emotionally manipulative. In other words, they always make me cry even though I know I'm watching cheesy garbage (e.g. Aida, Rent). Anyway, I loved Baz Luhrmann's approach of embracing the artifice and theatricality, and turning the traditional musical melodrama into a cinematic spectacle. It's Luhrmann's films (including Romeo + Juliet) that remind us that movies don't have to be naturalistic. The medium of film is open to such possibility that it's fairly remarkable that more filmmakers don't take advantage of that. Besides Luhrmann's two latest films (I never saw Strictly Ballroom), one of the only other recent films that comes to mind in terms of unique storytelling style is Run Lola Run. Much of Moulin Rouge has the heightened reality of 42nd Street on acid, but Luhrmann also knows when to pull back to concentrate on the story and the wonderful performances of the actors themselves--often in beatifully-lit close-ups.

I also love that much of the visual spectacle relies on "old-fashioned" methods of filmmaking like enormous sets, detailed models and matte paintings, rather than excessive CG work. In the DVD commentary Luhrmann points out that modern movie-goers are used to seeing things so letter-perfect on screen because most so-called "flaws" can now be corrected digitally. However, he notes that this tendency toward computer-generated "perfection" can strip the work of its humanity. Indeed, The Phantom Menace looks cold and austere in comparison--not to mention that Ewan McGregor is way hotter in Moulin Rouge.

Nicole Kidman's character Satine is so defined by her beauty that Nicole would hardly need to do much but stand there in her lovely costumes to make an impact. To be fair, though, she did a nice job conveying Satine's various emotional and physical states (though only in a musical would someone complete a complicated singing and dancing performance flawlessly, then drop dead a minute later). She really did look like she was smitten with Ewan McGregor--but who wouldn't be? Especially when her android dwarf of a husband was canoodling with Penelope Cruz at the time. Anyway! I couldn't say if I'd choose her as best actress of the year without seeing some of the the other contenders, but she made solid choices, if not particularly revolutionary ones.

And, yes, it's a crime that Baz Luhrmann wasn't nominated for Best Director.

So, at this point I've seen four of the five Oscar^TM nominees for Best Picture and--all apologies to Gosford Park--I think Moulin Rouge edges it by a nose if I were voting. I still think A Beautiful Mind will win, precisely because it appears to be the least deserving of them all.