New York City

This morning I arrived in at Newark, bright and early at 6 am.
Of course, I ended up spending most of the day readjusting to the fact that I was deplaning at 6 am. I did manage to leave the house for food: lunch with a friend and a rather expensive but delicious meal in Alphabet City with my brother.
As I was walking to the subway station at West 4th, I noticed that it had started snowing. This was easily the best moment of the day.

Ever since I moved from NY to the dry and tasteless city of LA, I have been in dire need of snow. I grew up here and my body is used to the concept of four seasons, one of which being the bone-chillingly cold winters. And with those winters comes snow. Before tonight it had been over 2 years since I'd seen snow fall. Sure last year I came to visit and there was still snow on the ground from the previous week's snowfall, but actually seeing the snow gently fall in large white flakes...that I had not seen.

Whenever I talk to friends and colleagues in NY after it has just snowed, I always lament not being around for it. No one seems to understand though. Everyone tells me how crazy I am and how I'm more than welcome to the snow if I want it so badly. And I always give a little chuckle. No one gets it.

To me, snow if part of the quintessential NY experience. I vividly remember that in January 2003, a couple of weeks before I moved, there was a great snow. Later that day, at dusk, I bundled up and decided to go for a walk through Central Park. The snow was up to my knees and as the sun set, it appeared to be the same sort of dusky blue as the sky. I wandered for a couple of hours till I had no clue where I was. There were only a few other people out in the park, the other intrepid souls wanting to brave the cold for the beauty of the freshly fallen snow. I was so deep into the park that all the traffic sounds from the street were muffled to non-existence. It was pretty much me, the snow, and the silence.

So tonight when I was able to pause for a minute and watch the flakes settle on my jacket sleeves, I was reminded of all the reasons I want to move back to this city. Though, it's not like I really need it.

What's So Great About Ray?

I make it a point to see every picture nominated for Best Picture, ideally before the Oscars actually tell me which picture is the superior product. And till this past Saturday night, I had seen four the five contenders: Sideways, Finding Neverland, Million Dollar Baby and The Aviator. All were excellent in their own ways, though I find myself on the fence between Million Dollar Baby and Sideways. Both are small and affecting movies, though I tend to side more with Sideways for the sheer subtlety of the performances. But I was reserving judgment till I had seen the final nominated movie: Ray.

After sitting through the over 2 hours and 20 minutes of Ray, I was shocked. Shocked that so many people thought this was good enough to be nominated for a best picture Oscar. In a year that saw such movies as Kinsey, Closer, and the truly brilliant Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, how did enough people pick this piece of crap? It wasn't just that the movie wasn't Oscar caliber - so many nominated movies aren't. It was that the movie wasn't even good. And yet, it managed to snatch up a bunch of nods, including best director for Taylor Hackford and the Vegas sure-shot for best actor, Jaime Foxx. I am still shaking my head.

Ray tells the story of Ray Charles from the time he starts out on the road till the time he calls it quits with his heroin addiction. In oddly filmed flashbacks, we see bits of his life right before and right after he lost his eyesight. Part of the major problem I had with the movie was that while Ray Charles's life was interesting, it didn't seem to warrant this epic sort of movie. It is amazing that a blind performer made it so big, but then again look at Beethoven and what he accomplished without being able to hear. He struggled with drugs and infidelity, but then again name me a music superstar who hasn't had a similarly checkered past. He was a black performer in the days of segregation. There were many black performers who worked to break the racial discrimination before, after and during the time that Ray Charles did. Not to belittle his own efforts, but he was not the only one. Overall, the story of Ray Charles's life didn't seem to warrant such monumental treatment.

Taylor Hackford's nomination is a slap in the face to the other talented directors in this year's group. Perhaps the movie might not have seemed as inconsequential had it not been filmed in a manner that I would have normally attributed to a first time director, though more likely to an amateur. Every scene seemed to be repeating something we had just seen: Ray performing in a club, wowing everyone and then while the music continued a montage of some occurrences from his life. This sort of scene occurred ad naseum. There was nothing innovative or exciting about how Mr. Hackford attempted to tell this story and that boredom was all too evident on the screen.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention Mr. Foxx's performance in the titular role. It is never easy playing an historical figure, just ask Colin Farrel. However, playing one that was still alive while the movie was filming must have been doubly difficult. And yes, Jaime Foxx does look, sound, and act an awful lot like Ray Charles. He even played the piano instead of using stunt hands. But was he the best actor of the year? Not even close. He gave a good performance but not a great one. Yes the performance did go above a mere imitation of a known musician, but for the most part he was not the most interesting character on screen. His wife and mistresses were far more energetic and riveting. It is almost a done deal that he'll receive the Oscar this year, but how this can happen while Paul Giamatti's beautiful portrayal of a man in the throes of depression, self-doubt and possible redemption was shoved to the side. If they must according to the list of nominees, at least give the Academy Award to Don Cheadle in Hotel Rwanda or Johnny Depp for Finding Neverland, though he would really be getting it for his spot-on Capitan Jack Sparrow in last year's The Pirates of the Caribbean.

Ray might be the sentimental favorite since we lost the real Mr. Charles this past year. He was an innovative musician and I love a great deal of his songs. I really have no problem honoring him and his musical and life achievements. Perhaps he just deserved a better movie than Ray.

Story of the Day

For once, I have something work related that doesn't involve me wanting to bash my head into the wall. Here is the content of the phone call I just received:

Me: Magmall, can I help you?
Caller: Do you guys buy used magazine?
M: No, sorry
C: Do you know anyone who does?
M: You should try Ebay.
C: Well, here's the story; I was willed 40 copies of Playboy.
M: Willed?
C: Yes. I live in an apartment building and this guy died and he left me 40 issues of Playboy in his will.
M: Congratulations.
C: I know. I don't want them and I don't need them, so I thought I'd try to sell them. Don't you know of any other companies that might want them?
M: No. Most magazine agencies will only sell new issues. But I really would try Ebay.
C: People will buy this on Ebay?
M: People will buy anything.
C: Thanks for the suggestion. Have a good weekend.
M: Good luck.

Now I know this sort of thing must happen every day, but I think it was the phrasing " I was willed 40 copies of Playboy" that just did me in.

Open Letter to a Fellow Audience Member

Dear Girl Who Sat Behind Me Saturday Night at the Lewis Black show at the Wiltern in LA:

After spending well over $50 to see one of my favorite comedians, I settled into my chair in the Loge section of the Wiltern theatre in LA, ready to laugh my ass off at Lewis Black's antic ravings. I was prepared for the rest of the audience to laugh as well, perhaps hoot and holler and cheer, but overall I expected that I would be able to enjoy my evening.

I was not prepared for you.

Not only did you and what I can only assume was your boyfriend insist on making out very loudly before the show and during intermission, but you insisted on braying like a donkey at everything. Usually I don't critize people's laughs. Hell, I can be loud myself if I find something that particularly tickles my funny bone. However, the noises that came out of your mouth were unacceptable.

When the warm-up guy, whose name eludes me, came on, you laughed as though you had not heard a truly funny joke in a solid year. Now, I can't say that just because I thought the guy was insanely unfunny that you should agree with me. But even if you thought he was amusing, there was no call for the cackling I heard coming from behind my seat.

However, the true insult was during Lewis's set. Your laugh was so obnoxious and so grating, that I began to dread Mr. Black's jokes. I began to fear that he would make one of his witty and angry observations and you would laugh so loudly that the ceiling would crumble like the walls of Jericho. I had to hold my ears several times during the night just to drown you out and I still managed to get a headache.

Far be it from me to say that you should not have enjoyed the performance. But perhaps you should have thought that other people wanted to enjoy the performance as well and if you laugh like a hyena on nitrous oxide, you might be preventing them from doing just that.

Please take this under consideration should you decide to go out in public again.

Thank you.

PS: This is for your boyfriend-
My God man! Don't you have ears or have you gone deaf from listening to her? Would it kill you to ask her to shut up so maybe the people around her could have a good time and not have her abusive laughter ringing in their ears? I am sure you love her, but for her sake, tell her to rein it in.