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Friday Field Trip: Stalking The Queen of Louisiana

Famous people go to restaurants and eat.

I know this may surprise you, but live long enough in New York City, and you will discover that this truth makes for occasionally great people watching and also events that, in the long run, are pretty mundane. When I saw Molly Ringwald at a birthday dinner for one of her friends, I was struck by how ordinary, how simply New York she seemed. It's who we are. It's what we do.

Similarly, when my friend Jennifer and I ate a late lunch one day at Fred's, the restaurant atop Barneys on madison Avenue, we were both surprised and yet unfazed to discover we were sharing the otherwise largely empty restaurant with Chris Rock, his wife and kids. Nice, fun to share... but mostly we were there for the food (although, while the food is good - and pricey - in the end, I keep going back to Fred's because you never know who you might see).

So Friday night I got to spend a little leisure time in Manhattan, with Michael, my other red headed pal. Michael have been friends for several years, and he remains my truest connection to gay life in Chelsea and Manhattan generally. Edward, his especially stylish, and youthful, boyfriend is also a big part of my keeping up with the absolute latest.

Anyway, the three of us share generally fancy food tastes, though Michael and I also share a common love of cheap Chinese (indeed, it's kind of a litmus test for friends that we share an appropriately cheap Chinese meal), Edward will have none of it. So instead of finding a fairly fancy Asian, we decided to go with Le Grainne, a charming French bistro at 21st and 9th, where we've dined before - mainly crepes and sandwiches along with some pasta, this is one of those "little places" that's more about being known to the locals than being one of the top spots. From 23rd down, you can really find tons of these (something similar up the East side, but I find the Upper West more about trendy and less about quality).

Anyway, it was a night of lovely food and our usual outrageous and funny conversation - we share similar dark and witty senses of humor - and wonderful all on its own... but then Edward looked over and spotted Evan Rachel Wood. Now, I know enough about movie stars to be able to identify Evan Rachel Wood by name, but not really by face. But Edward pulled up her pics on his iPhone and confirmed.

Apparently, Ms. Wood is best known these days for playing the Vampire Queen of Louisiana on True Blood. 

But really, it wan't like we were stalking her, and I made Edward come away from staring at her through the side window (but really, he was just checking out her date). But it was a genuine sighting.

And she's lovely. But mostly, I think we just appreciated her good taste, as well as our own. And anyway, Ethan Hawke lives just across the street, so that really doesn't count.

The Artist: Don't Speak!

In this year of the 85th annual Oscars, perhaps rewarding The Artist is the most fitting way the Academy could pay homage to its past: no film so exuberantly celebrates Hollywood's past with anywhere near as much genuine affection as The Artist does.

Think of it this way: The Artist is Singin' in the Rain, except from the point of view of the silents. That film exuberantly celebrates Hollywood's transition from silents to sound with singing, dancing and much amusement. The Artist reminds us that the transition wasn't that simple, yet still manages much amusement, and even a musical number or two.

Jean Dujardin plays George Valentin, a top box office draw in the twenties who is enjoying the premiere of his latest action adventure flick when the film opens. The opening itself is such a celebration of movies and moviegoing that it makes the first fifteen minutes a capsule of America's history with and love of the movies. When the film shifts from showing us Valentin's film to showing the audience's joy in watching it (and the details of the palace where they sit for it), a whole capsule of our lives as audience is thrown into the mix.

Valentin accepts the audience's accolades, then steps out front for a photo op with the Hollywood press, when a young nobody is pushed out of the crowd; she is Peppy Miller, the embodiment of "you're going out there a nobody, but coming back a star." It turns out she works as an extra on the picture lot where Valentin works, and she winds up with a key bit in his next film, which eventually catapults her into her own starring roles. Especially when it turns out that she is ideal for the new talking pictures.

While Peppy rises, George falls; he resists the transition to sound, determined to show that ther's still a place for silent films and silent film acting. When his self produced (and written and directed) star turn fails miserably, Valentin falls from grace, losing his wife, his mansion, his millions, and every shred of his dignity. All he has is his devoted dog, and his devoted manservant.

And Peppy. When George nearly dies in a drunken haze, starting a fire in his smal sad apartment, it's Peppy who swoops in to nurse him back to health. And, just when George seems liely to yet again flee from the talking pictures, it's Peppy who convinces him to take a chance and do the thing he's always wanted to do: sing and dance.

From start to finish, The Artist exudes such confidence and joy that it's utterly irresistible, which probably explains why it has won such critical acclaim, starting at Cannes this past year. The film is black and white and silent (except for a small dream sequence and the winning finale), yet it feels fresh and new and vital throughout. Dujardin is utterly charming as Valentin, with the ease of Doug Fairbanks and Errol Flynn, and dashing old style male movie star glamour. Berenice Bejo, as Peppy, is even more wondrous, a youngster who makes the rise to stardom utterly believable and true, while looking smashing in the twenties era outfits. Add to that the solid, reliable work of John Goodman as the Studio's head, and James Cromwell as Valentin's loyal manservant, and you've got a great mix.

Writer/Director Michel Hazanavicius has delivered a work so assured its astonishing that it's really his first foray into such a major work and that it works so incredibly well, drawing on all kinds of classic cinematic references, including harking back all the way to Oscar's only silent film Best Picture, 1927's Wings. It would be similar genius to see this film take Best Picture. I'm not sure The Academy is quite brilliant enough to see that... but if anyone can win them over, this one can. Don't miss it.

My Week With Marilyn: He's Got A Secret

There are those winderful, thrilling moments in the fall and winter - for a serious moviegoer, anyway - where you can just get blown away. It's the thrill of discovery, the shock of the new, the "I had no idea she had it in her" revelation. When I first saw Driving Miss Daisy (really, at that time), was the first moment I can remember walking out and saying "I think I just saw this year's Oscar winner for Best Picture." In a good way. 

It's been a while - don't ask me about last year - but this year has had some pretty amazing discoveries (and, hopefully, I can get all these film reviews in before midnight tomorrow), including a number of winning performances. But nothing, really, prepared me for being blown away by Michelle Williams in My Week With Marilyn.

Let the purists carp and complain - there will never ever be another Marilyn Monroe, obviously - but for my money, Williams is a revelation: sure, we knew she had good serious, actress chops, all the way back to Dawson's Creek. And she's delivered solidly, more than once. But her Marilyn Monroe is astonishing - beautiful, breathy, genius, full of life, yet small and sad and alone. This is not an easy part to pull off - even with this film's marvelous script - by any means, and Williams doesn't so much do an impersonation or a sketch as she fully inhabits the depths and contradictions of Monroe's short, brilliant life.

Ostensibly, My Week With Marilyn is a brief memoir of a young man's encounter with Monroe when she went to London to film The Prince and The Showgirl with Sir Laurence Olivier. Colin Clarke, a documentary fimmaker of some note, was an eager kid looking for a break in the film business, when he hustled his way into Olivier's film production office and came out with a job as Olivier's gofer (or, officially, an assistant director on the film). Clarke helped smooth the way for Monroe's arrival, arranging a house where she would stay, and serving as go-between from Olivier to Marilyn's team - her publicist, manager, and acting coach - as well as Monroe herself.

Monroe arrived in London fresh from having married Arthur Miller, and it was during filming that her marriage dissolved (as she discovered that Miller was less than fully honest about his interest in her), and she miscarried Miller's child. Those would be major life issues for anyone, But for someone as fragile as Monroe, the struggle to hold it together and show up and be "her" as she calls her star persona, was monumental. Clarke was one of the people who became a crutch for Monroe to lean on so she could hold it together and perform.

The film benefits tremendously from respecting artists and their quixotic ways; there's no exact villain here, Marilyn is her own enemy in some respects, but Olivier's own insecurities and demands also play a big role. Kenneth Branagh doesn't so much inhabit Olivier as essay him, quite effectively. Olivier's acting style - I'd call it heavy and somewhat fussy - was not a natural fit with Monroe's, and Clarke's telling is that he largely sensed this; as much as bemoans Monroe's lack of professionalsim for not showing up on time, his real annoyance is that, on camera, she steals the show.

Eddie Redmayne does a fine job as Clarke, shambling innocence and British breeding all intact, and Judi Dench shines, naturally, as Dame Sybil Thorndyke. Also, in small roles, Emma Watson charms as Clarke's other potential love interest, and Juliette Binoche does a striking turn as Vivien Leigh, who shares both Olivier's fascination, and fear, of Monroe and the way she represents a future without them.

But it's Williams, bouncing through choreography as Marilyn would, recreating Monroe's nightclub work, quietly singing in her bathtub, or breaking down in tears, who guides this film to its unique observations about stardom, success, and real talent. This isn't a film with easy answers or an obvious point, just a well observed snapshot of a revealing moment. And, yes, I'm pretty sure I saw tis year's Oscar winner for Best Actress. Just don't tell Meryl Streep.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: It's The Little Things. The Very Little Things.

Oscar buzz is a funny thing: a film shows up late in the winter season, close to the end of the year, and it often has "Oscar buzz". It's stage management, really, a good PR strategy, and sometimes the idea of buzz alone can do the trick (lots of people point to The Deer Hunter as an example of this). 

Hang around long enough, and one begins to sort out the idea of "Oscar buzz" from films that actually float to the top of awards lists. These aren't just star laden vehicles that happen to contain Oscar winners (Carnage) or highly anticipated works (The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo), or films screaming "Oscar bait" via bloated budgets and star turns (J Edgar, War Horse), they are films that have been bouncing around the festival circuit, or quietly been screened in advance for discerning eyes. You know them when you see them, I find.

And when what you're watching isn't one of them... you begin to know that as well. Last year, what passed for "Oscar Buzz" worthy was actually pretty dismal (Black Swan! Black Swan!))... this year, as the festival favorites begin to peek out, we've got some real quality to deal with... which makes the duds that much more pronounced.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy arrives in the "Highly anticipated" mode; it's the latest adaptation of John leCarre's now classic spy thriller, full of the top names of British acting, with an arresting trailer... and a lot of Oscar buzz. Yesterday's Christmas Day opening in Westtchester (in one, small theater) sold out, show after show. And from what I heard, there will be some positive word of mouth. But it was apparent to me that in terms of "Oscar buzz"... we'd been had. Already overlooked by SAG and the Golden Globes, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is yet another example of canny marketing of a remarkable dud. Stultifying, slow and painfully dense, the film never gathers any energy, is rarely gripping in any way, and generally sits there, grey and dismal, waiting for something, God knows what. Even the supposed tasty mystery thriller aspects turn out to be obvious and far less compelling than I'd imagined, full of holes and logical questions that plague bad mysteries and sloppy Agatha Christie.

Tinker, Tailor... is a fictionalized telling of the story of the outing of the "Cambridge Spies" - the cabal of Guy Burgess, Sir Anthony Blunt, Kim Philby and Donald MacLean, and one or more others - who served as double agents feeding information to the Soviet Union. The title refers to code names used by "Control" - the head of Secret Intelligence - as he begins an investigation into the presence of a mole at the top of British Intelligence. When Control dies, the job of trying to sort out the identity of the mole falls to George Smiley, an aging, world weary spy who's life and identity is fully wrapped up in his work.

Smiley recruite two trusted assistants within the agency, a young up and comer named Peter and an older, seasoned veteran. Under Smiley's direction they look at two mysterious incidents - one being the murder of an agent in Budapest, the other the disappearance of a low level hit man in Turkey. Both incidents trun out to be not what they seem at first look, and the unraveling of those stories leads to the identity of the Master Spy.

Or something. This probably all seemed terribly au courant and crucial back in the seventies (the book appeared in 1974, the first TV adaptation in 1979, played a part in leading to the public outing of Blunt's role in the Cambridge Spies in Parliament by Margaret Thatcher), but from a distance, a lot of what passes for incredibly tense Cold War maneuvering seems outdated and quaint, two sides fighting over a really small, and inconsequential, piece of cheese. The grim grey and brown visual palette isn't doing this film any favors either, giving the film's already hoary anecdptes a feeling of mustiness that can't really be shaken.

The slow, deadly pace of things (the film clocks in well over 2 hours, and feels it) should probably be blamed on the director, but this mess is a group effort. Part of the problem lies in the dense, yet nearly wordless script adapted by Bridget O'Connor and Peter Straughan, where characters never quite speak in complete, comprehesible sentences. Tinker, Tailor is also a story which unfolds in all sorts of jumbled flashbacks, and like a number of recent films which are overusing flashbacks and flash forwards, things quickly slide into incomprehensible. It doesn't help that we've got almost no one to care about in this exercise, either, or root for.

In that, the performances, too, deserve a good bit of blame. The film is anchored by Gary Oldman as Smiley, and Oldman's never been one of my favorite performers, but one could at least count on a steady, nervous energy emanating from him. That's not apparent here, and he seems deeply lost, drowning in his dumpy trench coat and unable to connect with the rest of the cast. Colin Firth, Toby Jones and Ciaran Hinds play the chief suspects, all smooth as silk, but much of their usual subtlety is lost here, and they are left telegraphing their every obvious motive, which is especially unfair to Jones, all shifty eyes and nervous tics. But Firth, too, seems cruelly misused. Hinds, bless, barely registers at all.

One of the film's chief failures is that there's almost no one here under the age of 30, limiting the opportunities for the kind of sexy derring-do normally associated with the spy genre, and the film seems to sense this (while also failing to make up for it in any way). All of which only makes the screeching attempts to shoehorn in some sexy business via actors Tom Hardy and Benedict Cumberbatch, both playing dopey bottle blondes, all the more forced and desperate. Hardy, as the hitman lost in Turkey at least acquits himself with some dignity, Cumberbatch, as Smiley's youthful right hand man, mostly looks bewildered and embarrassed.

In the end, the real blame here seems to lie with leCarre, who obviously knows what he's talking about, but doesn't actually have all that much to tell that's actually mysterious or thrilling to reveal. One of the real lessons about the Cambridge Spies has to do with how the British class system, favoring men of wealth and breeding, afforded the real life spies protection from suspiscion for far too long. In leCarre's vision, class isn't an issue, or one might want to pretend it simply doesn't exist, that all spies are equal inside their secret, hidden world. Of all the lies this film wants to expose, the one about class deserves the most exposing and seems, in this film, both too obvious and too ignored. Instead, focusing on every minute bit of business, the film bludgeons the audience into stupefaction. Some audiences may mistake that for genius... I suspect savvy Oscar voters won't be fooled. Full of tinkering, and much soldiering, this film seems to miss the elan of real tailoring and the enervating aspects of secret keeping that fuel the public's modest fascination with spies. A genuine disappointment, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy derserves every bit of its special status as this year's oddly igored also-ran. If it actually ran... perhaps we'd have something.

 

Breaking Dawn, Part 1: Kill Me Now

I rather enjoy the looks of stupefied wonder when I mention that I have seen all of the Twilight films. Four films in, they're the blockbusters that many people don't want on their block, and if you're not a teen or twentysomething girl - with some curious notions about love and vampires - it seems odd to be one of the repeat viewers.

To which I always say... secretly, I'm just a sixteen year old girl, especially when it comes to pop culture (later, let's discuss Justin Bieber). But in the case of Twilight, I have no illusions. I'm just trying for completeness at this point, seeing the whole terrible film cycle through to the end, a kind of reverse Lord of the Rings (growing in emotional dissatisfaction) or inverse Harry Potter (where at least one could care about what might happen next). My dark, cynical and sophisticated friends may see no point to Twilight, and ridicule those who watch... but I'd like to know what's being watched, and why.

Breaking Dawn, Part 1 isn't the worst of the Twilight films (in cinematic history, the first will likely go down as nearly unwatchable), but it does have much of what made the first two films as bad as they were: thin on plot, full of incomprehensible character choices, blessed with a highly passive heroine who remains stoically unlikable throughout. Worse, this is the film where Stephenie Meyers' odd notions of Twilight as some sort of cautionary tale about promiscuity and teen sexuality get full airing, to no good end.

In part, the problem with Breaking Dawn, Part the First, is structural: this is the "Bella gets married" part of the story, and it's drippy, predictable and stale right from the start. It doesn't help that the wedding itself becomes a prime example of Bella's essential passivity: when have you ever seen a fun marriage movie where all the organizing was done by the groom's family? Yet, its the Cullen vampires who work as the main drivers of the wedding plans and execution. And the effect, almost immediately, is to cut Bella off from the rest of the human characters in the story.

But the real mess of the film starts with the honeymoon, an odd jaunt to an otherwise uninhabited island off the coast of Brazil, where Edward and Bella can finally consummate their love - or can't, really, because the sex is painful and uncomfortable partly because Edward is brutally overpowering in his strength, leading to Bella's stupefying response of "don't mind these bruises, let's do it again." 

it doesn't matter anyway; thanks to one night of passion, Bella becomes pregnant with a vampire baby. 

Now, let's all try and set aside the cries of "preposterous" and "absurd", however accurate they may be; part of the power of fiction is to give us the chance to explore improbable, even impossible scenarios, and for the purposes of Meyer's plotting, vampire babies have to be a possibility. And the failure to render it believable here isn't necessarily Meyer's fault. The whole storyline, and much of what follows from it, just shows up with no preparation or explanation, and the film simply flies off the rails trying to follow the improbable turns of events.

It doesn't help that pregnancy - especially a vampire pregnancy - reduces Bella to skin and bones, a disturbing image of anorexia, and pregnant anorexia at that. It helps less that Kristen Stewart, all grim looks and muttered words, seems to have given up on trying to make sense of Bella as a character, seemlngly less present in her own story than anytime previous (which is saying something, given that this girl has been the least present heroine in history). It also doesn't help that Robert Pattinson, whose talent has been propping up much of the sloppy writing and lazy direction, seems pretty much lost by the unfolding of events here. Edward, too, becomes passive and helpless, a cipher whose choices make less and less sense.

And something is terribly wrong in Twilight world when the real star of the proceedings is Taylor Lautner, as alternative love interest/werewolf Jacob. The back half of this film becomes Jacob's story, a chance for him to shine as heroic and decent... and to his credit, Lautner's acting lessons and growing experience in front of cameras finally pays off, the seasoning he could have (and probably should have) gotten doing two years of soaps. To the extent that he can, he holds the film's second half together, but it's a lot of weight for even his well developed shoulders (which, given his new "seriousness" we of course see very little of; all the shirtlessness happens in the first five minutes). 

Amidst all this pointlessness, Bella winds up in labor in the last ten minutes, the prospect of actually giving birth likely to kill her, which leads to an obvious, and obviously foreordained solution: Bella herself must turn vampire, a choice which has, in this series, been oddly obvious and oddly verboten all along. No one, it seems, should want to die (and later, we'll hold a graduate level seminar on equating sex, pregnancy, and girlish love with death), and Bella, obviously, has always wnted to live. As if. Nobody's put the "ghoul" in Goth quite the way Stewart has, so the film's queasiness - and nausea inducing final sequence of flashing lights and colors - seems misplaced. But then, most everything does in this film, which is supposed to leave us panting for more with Bella's eyes flying open at the end - second life, indeed. 

Perhaps, one can hope that, freed from the tired dilemma of Bella's choosing to go dark side (and just as finally, freed from their silly love triangle), that Breaking Dawn the Second and Final will finally shake its inhibitions - and its cringe-y morality - and really push some boundaries. Of course, really plowing fresh ground would require the kind of breakthrough acting work none of the three have really produced so far (though Pattinson seems itchy enough to go for it), and scripts much better than we've seen thus far. As it is, Twilight will most likely peter out in grim, miserable fashion, grinding away with chererless literalism as it slavishly follows its text (like, really, it's no bible. Even that has some real sex and gore going for it) to the bitter end. Like Bella, I find myself whispering one final plea: Kill me now.

 

And So This Is Christmas... And What Have You Done?

Christmas has been, like much this year, a little weird, but also somehow just right. I've felt quite "spirited", full of Chistmas cheer and joy, pretty much since Thanksgiving (and even a little before that, once we decorated the store). And yet, here we are, two days out... and we don't have a tree, and a lot of other work has yet to be done.

I'm pretty sure, without looking, that I mention my love of Christmas each year; it's a family tradition, it's my Swedish heritage, and it's the optimistic kid inside of me, all rolled up. Working in retail - which has been a pretty consistent thread of my adult working life - can really grind the Christmas spirit right out of you. Us salesgirls are a hardened lot. Yet somehow, as if on cue, I hear carols and see decorations, a little switch inside me gets switched on.

And it helps to remember what's really important about Christmas and the season. In our way, the people I know who are serious about a life in retail, kind of share this notion: Christmas is so not about the things and the shopping and the decorations in October. If you can't get beyond that, if Christmas doesn't live somewhere besides the mall... I think one is bound to be disappointed, at some point in life.

One of my customers has been on pins and needles, waiting to see if her County government job would be saved from massive budget cuts, and that her county subsidized living arrangement wouldn't also go away. Yesterday, we got the final good news: her job is secure, at least for now, and she took the big step of finding a new home and is now just settling in. It is, as they say, a Christmas miracle.

I'm afraid I'm something of a traditionalist when it comes to the calendar year; I see the year ending and the new year coming and somehow, this time of year is all endings and beginnings, sum-ups and fresh starts. It's kind of obvious, kind of cliche... yet that's the pattern I see, over and over. I get to December, and my mind just starts to take stock. And plan for the next start.

As I've said, in some ways this has been a very weird, very hard year - emotionally and economically tough, full of strange endings and fresh uncertainties. This year has also been a real test of just how thoroughly I can keep up with my self-assigned task of writing continually and consistently. But here I am, at the end of the year, and I find myself focused on what remains: the good that exists, the joys that highlght my daily routines, the love I have and can freely share. As much as I don't love Lennon's Christmas carol (and this year, I realized, for the first time... it's not Yoko's fault), I find myself, for once, appreciating his song and it's simple opening. So this is Christmas... I hope you had fun.

I did, and I will.

The Payroll Tax Break Is Kind Of Dumb. And So Is Not Extending It.

So a while back, the Democrats wanted to pass a tax break for "working families" (I'm sorry, I am a lifelong Democrat and I will stand up and cheer when someone, someday, kills off the phrase "working families". It just makes my teeth grate), and they came up with this kind of silly idea: they would lower the payroll tax.

It's a dumb idea because, first, the payroll tax is the funding mechanism for Social Security. This is the same Social Security that politicians like to claim is in "danger" when it isn't- though funding Social Security payouts long term has some fiscal problems... in any case, the way to keep Social Security solvent does not involve underfunding it.

That's okay, one can reply, because the Payroll Tax Cut had a funding mechanism in which the lost revenues are replaced by "general funds". This is usually called Robbing Peter To Pay Paul, or in this case, using tax receipts collected for one purpose to pay for other tax receipts that should have been collected but weren't, while borrowing money to make up for the shortfall.

This is really dumb. This is why department stores won't let you buy gift certificates, and then use the gift certificates to pay off your department store credit card bill.

Anyway, it's also a dumb idea to cut the payroll tax by a small amount because the small windfall most taxpayers receive is a) largely unnoticed, and b) probably not used to do things like pay down debt or improve savings. Because our economy is consumer driven, what they want people to do is shop. Which means buying things you don't need and probably can't afford. As opposed to taking some of your paycheck, and paying it into a savings plan that will pay out when you retire.

Oh, never mind.

The problem is that the payroll tax rteduction was put in place for a year, and it's now set to expire, and when it does, everyone will notice that their taxes went up. And Democrats - or more specifically, the President's reelection team - is worried that less money in people's paychecks will make them grumpy and grumpy people vote for Newt Gingrich. Or Rick Santorum. Or something.

Naturally, Republicans are in no mood to extend a tax break that makes the President look good (cue the natural segue into how Republicans Hate Working Families), and also are kind of mad about several other things, notably this plan to build a pipeline across the country north to south so that Canadian oil shale can be efficiently delivered to refineries in Texas. Oil shale is also a pretty dumb idea (slightly less dumb than fracking, but still), and the pipeline could probably be rerouted, but mostly, this "debate" is a lot of the smae thing we get these days of terrible, useless Washington politics. One dumb idea in exchange for another. None of which really addresses the problems we actually face.

I don't really care about any of this - which is why I don't write daily about the dramatic brinksmanship going on in DC - and frankly, I'd be fine if the payroll tax went back to normal and someone actually took brinksmanship over, and past, the brink. Perhaps then, something might change, a bit. I know, it's a foool's notion. But I remain optimistically foolish. Just for spite.

In any case, the payroll tax break is a dumb idea, but extending it is probably better than not extending it... but frankly, it's the fact that we're all standing around talking about this stupidity that just floors me. And also why I'd probably rather eat Christmas cookies, watch reruns of SVU, and hope the whole thing just goes away. Who's with me?

Hitch

Like many, the moment was gasp-inducing: when I read Christopher Hitchens scathing take on Mother Theresa, I was both appalled and amused. And ultimately, won over.

If there was a sacred cow, Hitch wanted to take it apart, both to show you there was no need to hold it sacred, and to point out that cows are tasty, if cooked properly. 

He had, as they say, a way with words. His sentences were things to admire, full of pithy phrasing, brilliant word choices, dripping acid on his subjects as they made their acerbic points. He was the last of a breed, the unapologetic, slightly sozzled old school reporter (classic Fleet Street, as they say over there) who took nothing for granted and so no need for the niceties.

Hitch was a good example of how Vanity Fair is a different thing under Graydon Carter, less the upscale version of People that it devolved to under Tina Brown, harder edged, more sarcastic, a latter day Spy, an American Punch, still obsessed with celebrity and names, darling, names... but less sentimental, more old school. There was Dominick Dunne to name drop incessantly, and Hitchens, to remind you that assumed greatness is a mistake.

I remember when he called the Queen Mother an old drunk, and those terrible things he said about Jackie Onassis (not as bad as Gore Vidal, but still). And never mind those terrible things he said about churches and religion. Is nothing sacred? Of course not.

They don't make them like Hitchens anymore, partly because we know better: when he wrote 5,000 words defending his drinking, I felt, for once, not that he'd gone too far, but that his cantankerousness was simply the camouflage of an old man set in his ways. He was one of the "getting sober is for quitters" school, of a piece with his general defiance... but at some point, some choices aren't giving in or giving up, they're just sensible, practical approaches to living healthier. Hitchens gave up nothing, but he was slowed, finally, by cancer that robbed him, literally, of his voice, but not his words. And he was not about to go gentle in to the good night.

The word is that Christopher Hitchens died overnight, at age 62, having completed his last piece which will appear in next month's Vanity Fair. It will, of course, be a must read. But then, they all were. All I wanted was for him to live longer.

The One About Ron Paul

Since I've done most of the others... oh, hell, that came out wrong, didn't it? 

But anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about Ron Paul.

Ron Paul is a libertarian. That means, apparently that he believes in "liberty" above all else. Or something. At least in theory. In practice, Ron Paul says a lot of kooky things that everyone thinks are fascinating because he seriously seems to believe that one cannot possibly deviate from one's overarching theoretical principle. even if the "logical conclusion" makes no sense.

Representative Paul - he's been in Congress for quite a while - also has the real politician's gift for making otherwise outlandish statements seem perfectly reasonable. He presents well. He has that "am I the only one who sees this?" quality that suggests that he does, indeed, see something more clearly than the rest of us. Of course... this is not actually a good test.

There's this long debate about just how much libertarians and conservatives actually have in common. For one thing, Ron Paul is no fan of defense spending or an expansive foreign policy, mostly because he's generally no fan of government of any sort. Or not much sort. Or something. It's a very long debate and people on either side of it can argue about really esoteric details for a really long time. If we're lucky, we can use this to distract them... and run away.

Libertarians are the ones who think that society is best when the individual is pretty much allowed to run free, free of rules and pesky regulations and the ever present hand of Big Brother. Conservatives don't like Social Security because it's socialism. Ron Paul doesn't like Social Security because it's the govertnment. See the important distinction?

So the thing is, there are a lot of people who fancy themselves "libertarians," and most of them really like Ron Paul. A lot. And because the Republicans can't seem to exclude any wild idea from their side's discourse, Ron Paul has built himself a pleasant libertarian fiefdom within the GOP. Republicans don't really want a lot of Ron Paul... but if Ron Paul stays calm, most of those "libertarians" will reliably vote Republican. You know... for the people who want the government to regulate people's marriages and sex lives. Because that's totally, like, liberty.

Ron Paul, by the way, doesn't have a problem with gay marriage. He has a problem with (wait for it...) marriage licenses.

Look, I try to take Ron Paul seriously - and believe me, if we'd taken Ron Paul a little more seriously, perhaps we'd have better avoided the train wreck of Senator Rand Paul, his son, every bit as out there, but not as bright - and then I go and listen to Ron Paul... and I can't do it. I just can't do it.

So... did you hear the one about Ron Paul actually winning Iowa?

I'm sure it's just, you know, a joke. 

And win or lose, you've got to admit, it would be pretty funny. It's almost as if he could be President. Or something.

 

Don't Ask, Just Tell: Sh*t Gay Guys Say

I love me some internets!

 

 

 

Although I haven't said all of this... I've said a lot of it. Or something a lot like it. :)