A podcast about books, art & life — not necessarily in that order
Plenty of work, plus lots of time stuck in a subway to the conference center. But it didn’t stop us from taking some good pictures of the sunset.
I posted more as part of that growing flickr set. Amy’s gotta convert hers from the last few days, and we’ll get those posted, too.
We went to the Louvre today, then took a walking tour of a bunch of passages, the covered shopping areas that used to dominate before the arrival of department store. I’m sure Walter Benjamin wrote about that in the Arcades Project, but I’ll likely never get around to reading it.
Anyway, I posted a bunch of my pix, added to my original Paris photoset. Amy hasn’t gone through hers to figure out which ones to post.
I head out to my conference tomorrow morning, so we’ll see what sorta shenanigans she gets into while I’m up at Villepinte. Presumably, it’ll involve shopping.
Bonus! Louvre joke: You thought Britney was a bad mom?
We shouldn’t have taken that afternoon nap, since we’re now wide awake at midnight. Grr.
But, since we’re up, we decided to process today’s Paris pix and upload them to flickr.
Here’s my batch, shot on a Minolta Dimage Xt, the little pocket-sized camera I tote around.
Here’s Amy’s batch, with her much better Kodak EasyShare P880. The colors are much more vivid than what I can get from the Minolta, and she’s got much better zoom and control with it.
I oughtta upgrade, but I’d hate to carry a large camera with a zoom lens, and I don’t think I can get really good quality from any of the minis out there. So you guys will probably just have to suffer my poor photography.
We made it to Paris, dear readers, but your Virtual Memoirist and his wife are all sorts of wiped out. I took some pix this afternoon, but haven’t had time to download them. I hope to tomorrow morning, then post them up to flickr.
Unfortunately, there were a couple of things we simply couldn’t take pictures of:
a) the girl going through security at Newark who was wearing VERY low-risers and a black thong, which led me to nickname her “Ms. Texas Longhorn”
b) the sign in the Newark terminal that read, “Tel Aviv customers go to gate [xxx] for secure boarding.”
Ouch. Anyway, the flight was uneventful. I wasn’t interested in watching any of the in-flight flicks, but a lot of passengers were all over The Break-up, in which Jennifer Anniston’s role appeared to be that of mannequin who wears a variety of cocktail dresses.
More tomorrow!
No one will pay to see Scarlett Johanson. You know your career’s in trouble when you’re being compared to Ben Affleck:
Years back, it was Eddie Murphy, who went from mega-star to loser when he churned out such bombs as Pluto Nash and I Spy before recovering his stroke. Kevin Costner still seems to be in the penalty box, although his upcoming action film, The Guardian, may change that. And there’s the sad story of Ben Affleck: good-looking, kind-hearted, talented, and death to just about any film he’s in. (Remember 2004’s back-to-back stinkers, Saving Christmas and Jersey Girl?)
Well, welcome to box-office hell, Scarlett. An intelligent woman with some two dozen films to her credit, Johansson, 21, has everything that Hollywood wants in its starlets. She’s charming and she genuinely can act. Better yet, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. But of late, she seems to inject poison into just about every film that has her name in the credits.
I’m very disappointed that he didn’t make a comment about Kevin Costner finding his stroke.
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Pimp my kippah. (thanks, Sirk!)
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ESPN had the very stupid idea that people would buy cell phones for a network operated by ESPN, rather than Cingular or Verizon or somebody. It failed.
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Idiocracy will be the next cult classic.
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In grad school, I subscribed to the economy theory of liver destruction: If you’re going to get drunk, drink malt liquor. You can’t get more messed up for $1.99.
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Dubai’s making great strides in its efforts at becoming a free-trade zone. Of course, I’ll never be allowed to set foot there, since I’m a Jew.
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When I visit someone’s home, the first thing I look for is the host’s bookshelf. So does Jay Parini:
What interests me about other people’s books is the nature of their collection. A personal library is an X-ray of the owner’s soul. It offers keys to a particular temperament, an intellectual disposition, a way of being in the world. Even how the books are arranged on the shelves deserves notice, even reflection. There is probably no such thing as complete chaos in such arrangements.
Thanks to Delicious Library, you can check out mine.
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And I’ve decided to take Little, Big with me to Paris. I’ll letcha know how it goes.
My other point of pride is how quickly and how well some of my dear readers (and great friends) offered up resources to help out The Brooding Persian. I forwarded everyone’s messages to him, and he was enormously grateful. He’s going to try to follow through with our advice and see where it gets him.
Thanks to everybody who pitched in on this. I’m proud to have such good and caring friends.
Maybe (?) it’s dweebish to take pride in being able to help put on a good pharmaceutical outsourcing conference, but it’s an awfully good feeling when an event works out as well this one has.
The first day of the event is the more stressful one: We had 130 companies at the one-day tabletop exhibition and more than 300 attendees in the house for the conference sessions (between sessions, we had events in the exhibit hall, so the attendees could learn about the exhibitors and do business). It’s basically a four-person operation, with some day-of-show help from some of our office staff.
The buildup is pretty harrowing for us, knowing that more than 500 people are on site because of the strength of the brand 0f our magazine. But the big day was a rousing success. The exhibitors were ecstatic with the quality of the leads they were getting from the attendees, while the attendees loved the presentations we put together (I take a little more pride in that part, since this was the first year I was largely responsible for organizing the presenters and topics).
Anyway, I know this is coming off as a rah-rah horn-self-tooting, but I feel awfully good about how well it all turned out. Exhibitors were seeking us out at the cocktail reception after the show, to tell us they wanted to sign up for next year’s event now. It takes months of preparation that still leaves plenty of last-minute stress, and it’s a great feeling when everyone else is happy with the results.
Now, on to Paris, for a conference about 9 bazillion times bigger than this one.
(I’ll try to post some Unrequired Reading this afternoon, when I’m home.)
In honor of the Saints’ return to New Orleans, I made a dirty martini for Amy with some “Cajun infused olives” that we picked up this weekend (Amy accented it with a little Tony Chachere’s).
If I didn’t have this crazy work schedule this week — big issue, our conference, then another conference — we’d have gone down to NO,LA for a long weekend, capped off with scalped tickets for tonight’s game against the Falcons. I know it’s only one night, but it’s nice to see people flocking into the city again.
Amy’s in heaven, since the Saints are winning and her dream-guy Ed Hochuli is the referee for the game.
I’ve got a request for you, dear readers. A friend of mine (the Brooding Persian, whom I met in grad school) is suffering through a psychotic breakdown and an undetermined autoimmune disease (the latter seems to be causing the former, as an organic brain disorder). He’s living in the Seattle area, doesn’t have money, and is describing himself as a “ward of the courts,” on probation after a recent “harassment” arrest that he chalks up to this psychosis.
Here’s the request: do any of you know of any psychiatrists in the Seattle area who might be willing to talk to/evaluate my friend? He mentioned to me that he’s seeing a doctor in a “clinic for the poor.” I don’t want to cast aspersions on the quality of the help that he’s receiving; I just want to get him the best aid possible.
Drop me a line if you have any leads.
We missed Jackass Number Two this weekend, as the only theater on the trajectory of our Saturday morning errand-run was showing it at an inopportune time. So we’ll have to catch it later on. I will laugh a bunch if it’s showing in Paris when we arrive next week. During my last trip there, I caught Minority Report in a theater in Montparnasse. The audience stood and applauded at the end of the movie. Between that and the sugar-coated popcorn, I became convinced that the French are actually aliens. With bad taste.
So, instead of Jackass, I treated Amy to another of the bizarre mini-classics of ’90s cinema last night: Funny Bones. She’s an Oliver Platt fan, and may be on her way to becoming a Lee Evans fan (not that there are many movies to build one’s fandom upon, but his work in this, There’s Something About Mary and, to a lesser extent, The Ladies’ Man, is pretty solid). Funny Bones a magical little movie (albeit 20 minutes too long), and we were happy to bail on the ponderousness of The Ice Harvest to get to it.
Most of the movie takes place in Blackpool, England (as Morrissey put it, “a coastal town that they forgot to close down.”), where virtually everyone is a comedy performer. When I first saw the flick in 1996 or so, it put me in mind of Dylan Horrocks’ sublime comic book Hicksville, about a little town in NZ where everyone is an expert on some variety of comics.
In addition to great jobs by Platt & Evans, there are plenty of supporting actors who put in terrific work in this one: Jerry Lewis, Leslie Caron, Oliver Reed (briefly), Richard Griffiths (whom we KNEW we’d seen recently, but couldn’t remember where; it turned out to be Withnail & I), the late George Carl and Freddie Davies (whose roles are mixed up in the IMDB entry for the movie).
Interestingly, it got an R rating, for “a scene of tragic violence,” which is a great term. I’m not sure which scene it’s referring to, since there are two violent scenes and each could be taken as tragic. Anyway, it’s a quirky flick (tragic violence aside), but it was a million times better than that Ice Harvest, I’m telling you.
Now, the funny thing about “I’m telling you” is that I tend to tell people to see, read, or listen to a lot of stuff. If I like a book, I’ll buy extra copies to give out (Richard Flanagan should buy me a drink, if we cross paths in Tasmania). But for some reason, I find it pretty difficult to get around to listening to CDs, watching DVDs, or reading books that are lent to me. On the face of it, I would guess it’s simply because I’m an egotistical prig who doesn’t believe that other people’s recommendations are worthwhile.
But, because I’m always trying to compensate for those tendencies, I’m inclined to believe that it’s due to something even more messed up and insidious. I’ve become pretty good at forcing myself to do stuff that my undermind is trying to keep me from doing, but I still “for some reason” never get around to other people’s suggestions or loans.
Fortunately, I’m making a little progress. This weekend, I broke out a book that one of my dear readers (and best friends) sent me as a birthday gift a few years ago: a collection of nonfiction by Bruce Jay Friedman called Even the Rhinos Were Nymphos. I can’t tell you why I didn’t get to it sooner, especially since this buddy of mine has great taste in writing. I can’t tell you why I finally took it off the shelf this weekend, except perhaps because I wanted to read two consecutive books that were blurbed by Steve Martin.
But I can tell you that I’m a retard for not getting to this book earlier. Friedman’s style (at least in his early 1990s writing) is similar to my best work, but a million times better. I feel like I’m learning plenty from the book (not that I’m demonstrating that here), while enjoying the heck out of it.
Throw in some NFL-viewing and some time rearranging my freshly painted home office, and that’s about it for my weekend.