Author: Gil

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Now is the Time When the Matador Meets the Blind Shoemaker

Amy & I went out to see Talladega Nights this afternoon. It was a hoot (but no 40-Year-Old Virgin, and it featured the tallest lead cast ever, with major screen time going to Will Ferrell (6’3″), John C. Reilly (6’1″), Michael Clarke Duncan (6’5″) and Sascha Baron Cohen (6’4″). We felt that they should have added either Tim Robbins or Tom Cruise.

We bought the movies at a ticket kiosk outside the theater. A printed note was taped next to the screen on each kiosk, to let moviegoers know that the trailer for World Trade Center would be shown before The Devil Wears Prada and You, Me and Dupree. If any of you readers from outside the NYC metro area went to the movies this weekend, did you see any similar notice, or is this something that they’re just particularly sensitive about in this region?

I saw the commercial for World Trade Center a few weeks ago while I was donating at the blood center over in Linwood. I admit that I had a hard time figuring out if the clips it showed were effective movie-making or if I’m still too strongly affected by the imagery. I know it’s not exactly summertime fare, so it’s kinda odd that the studio chose to drop the film just now.

On the other hand, Amy & I were pretty happy to find out that Idlewild is coming out in a few weeks, because

a) it means that there’s a new OutKast album, and

b) it means that we can meet up with official VM buddy Mark F. and see the flick at his local theater: the Magic Johnson Theater up in Harlem!

There’s also Little Miss Sunshine, Borat and Jackass 2 to see, so I might actually get out to the movies a few times before the end of the year! In the last few years, I’ve gone to fewer and fewer flicks, largely because I can’t be bothered. But Amy’s a good influence on me, getting me out to see important films with moments like this one.

In other news, my brother, his wife and their two daughters are in town for a week. We’re all planning to go down to the shore for a day. This time, I’ll remember to bring my camera to the boardwalk (and I’ll buy some goofy T-shirts, Tina). We picnicked up in a botanical garden on Saturday, and I got to tell the kids (6 and 3) outrageous lies about The Hunchback of Skylands Manor and The Slav in the Iron Mask. They love me.

I’m also battling a milder case of poison ivy than the one I got hit with around Memorial Day. I spent Friday afternoon with My Pal The Chainsaw, taking down some of the dead and decaying trees in the yard. While I did wear long sleeves and long pants, I managed to get a little of the evil stuff on my forearms, an inch or so above the wrists.

This pisses me off greatly, since it now means I’m going to have to get a biohazard suit for the next time I go out to clear more of the yard. Or I can hire some landscapers, warn ’em about the poison ivy, and let them take care of things.

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Good and Bad

The good news: Official VM just-about-closest-friend-in-the-world Ian just got promoted to Chief Petty Officer. At first, I thought this meant he was quitting the Navy to become a roadie for Tom Petty, but then I realized that it’s actually “the most significant promotion within the enlisted Navy ranks,” according to Wikipedia. I’m hoping it’s accurate, as opposed to this hilarious story from The Onion. So, congrats!

The bad news: One of my uncles in Israel had to flee for the shelters last night. He writes,

The nightmare becomes reality. At about 2100 this evening (Erev Shabbat) the sirens began to wail. Only my daughter and myself were about and we both made straight for the shelter. The siren seemed to go on for ever. After about a minute silence. A few seconds later we heard a distant boom. More like a thud. We waited a few minutes more and emerged unscathed from the shelter.

It seems that three rockets fell in the vicinity of Hadera. No casualties reported so far. Spent the rest of the evening watching Clint Eastwood’s recent masterpiece: “Million Dollar Baby.” It was difficult getting the siren out of my mind. Latest news is that the IAF has taken the launchers out but I assume that they still have more launchers. Ah well, tomorrow’s another day. It always is!

I just finished re-reading the first segment of Gravity’s Rainbow, “inspired” by the rocket attacks. It’s “about” the German rocket attacks on England during WWII, focusing on the V-2 rocket. Since that one flew supersonically, the impact would occur before the sound of its approach. Pynchon’s characters (including several behavioral scientists) are fascinated by this concept, with the way our perception of cause and effect gets reversed.

Of course, in the Middle East, we all have our own problems with sorting out cause and effect.

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Malibu’s Most Wanted

We all say dumb things when we’re hammer drunk, and I think they generally fall into one of three groups:

Maudlin sentimentalities: “I love you guys,” “I could’ve gone pro if I didn’t blow out my shoulder,” or “My life is f***ed.”

Pronunciamentos: “David Duke is right! Who’s standing up for the rights of white men?” “This country will never be safe until we deport all the Eskimos,” or “The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world.”

Things we say to get into someone’s pants: “Your poetry’s really good,” “I like Radiohead, too,” or “What do you think you’re looking at, sugar tits?”

Which brings us to the case of Mel Gibson’s DUI bust. It was funny enough to see that he’d been busted, but the humor level went through the roof when the report came out about his anti-semitic tirade toward the arresting deputy.

Dan Drezner has a neat chain-of-events that will spin out of the weekend, Chris Hitchens offers a great subhed for his Gibson column (“He is sick to his empty core with Jew-hatred”), the Times has the meta-story about the speed of scandal, and Gregg Easterbrook has a football column up at ESPN.com.

Why mention that last one? Because Disney-owned ESPN fired Easterbrook a few years ago for what were perceived as anti-semitic remarks directed at movie studio owners. I wrote about the situation here and here. For a while, Easterbrook’s Tuesday Morning Quarterback column was carried at NFL.com. It returned to ESPN this season without a comment. At the moment, it’s the lead item on ESPN.com, with the headline “Easter Tuesday.”

Maybe ESPN was just waiting for Disney CEO Michael Eisner to leave before bringing Easterbrook back. Or perhaps Willow Bay was a big fan of the column. The cold medication’s kicking in too strongly for me to make any real point here, but Easterbrook’s been “forgiven” by ESPN (which shouldn’t have fired him to begin with), even if they couldn’t get around to explaining how their interpretation of his comments has changed. Gibson, on the other hand, with his tortured apology, seems to be intent on proving the South Park guys right.

(In the process of “researching” this post, I came across a batshit-crazy anti-semitic website devoted to explaining Jewish ownership of American media. Enjoy.)

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No disrespect to the occidentals

Made it back from New Orleans yesterday, but I brought a mean headcold with me. Took the day off from work today, since there’s no way I can drive in my present condition. Just getting down to the CVS and back this afternoon was an adventure.

Given these parameters, expect even less coherence from this blog for the next few days.

Recapping from where we left off: Amy & I had a wonderful dinner at NOLA on Sunday. I was like Reggie Jackson, going for three home runs that night:

Appetizer: Pan-roasted crab cake with smoky eggplant puree, feta cheese, crispy spinach and citrus butter

Salad: Strawberries and goat cheese with baby spinach, toasted pistachios and warm bacon-balsamic vinaigrette

Entrée: “Shrimp & Grits” sautéed Gulf shrimp, grilled green onions, smoked cheddar grits, apple smoked bacon, crimini mushrooms, Creole tomato glaze and red chili-Abita butter sauce

Stupidly, I added the NOLA Buzz Bomb for dessert (flourless chocolate torte with bittersweet chocolate mousse and brandied apricots wrapped in chocolate ganach). We were quite stuffed.

Earlier in the day, my wife went to church with her mom. Her dad stayed home, seemingly intent on passing that headcold on to me (just kidding). I read some Pynchon, tried to nap, and watched Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, and that’s about as close to religion as I’ve gone lately.

The sermon went on pretty late, evidently, but the highlight of the morning came when they were singing hymns. Amy told me that, during the children’s church segment, they broke out an old standard, the first verse of which is

Jesus loves the little children,
All the children of the world,
Red and yellow, black and white,
They are precious in his sight,
Jesus loves the little children of the world.

“That’s a nice sentiment,” I said.

“Yeah,” she replied. “But then they sang a second verse, which I’d never heard but everyone else knew:

“Jesus loves the little children,
All the children of the street,
English, Irish, Russian, Jew,
German, Jap, Italian, too,
Jesus loves the little children of the street.”

“Did Bill Parcells write your hymnal?” I asked. No disrespect to Orientals. Or Mel Gibson.

As I’ve said, everyone down there has treated me pretty well. Especially Emeril.

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Bush Saves New Orleans

Last night, we had CMT’s Hee Haw Weekend Marathon on while Amy worked up a dose of Emeril’s spicy tomato glaze. My parents didn’t watch Hee Haw much when I was a kid, although my dad developed an unhealthy attachment to Willie Nelson in the 1980s (unhealthy inasmuch as he really loved that duet with Julio Iglesias). My in-laws asked if I listened to Buck Owens. I told them I never did, but that Amy was pretty broken up when Owens died this year.

I made my first visit to a Wal-Mart yesterday. Where I live (northern NJ) it’s not a huge feat to avoid them; my grocery needs aren’t extensive and the only store I know of nearby is up in Western Samaria (aka Rt. 59 in NY state). Down here, it’s more of a necessity, especially post-Katrina. I took one step inside and Got It: huge, well-lit venue, cleaner than any of the local markets, good selection of food products. And then there’s all the other stuff: a family passed us with a shopping cart filled with food, back-to-school clothing, and a color inkjet printer. Wal-Mart doesn’t carry everything, of course.

In the “efnic food” aisle, we bumped into Amy’s cousin Wade, whom I last saw during his visit to NYC with his wife. He pines to retun to the city.

I always wonder about how different regions see each other. It reminds me of that scene in Annie Hall, when Woody Allen tells Tony Roberts, “Don’t you see? The rest of the country looks upon New York like we’re left-wing, Communist, Jewish, homosexual, pornographers. I think of us that way, sometimes, and I live here!” But Wade really liked visiting, and no one down here’s given me any crap for, um, being who I am. Even if the housepet is a little judgemental.

The news here is focused on yesterday’s six murders — the murder rate is skyrocketing this year — but the top story is that Reggie Bush signed his rookie contract with the Saints. In the Times-Pic, it takes top billling over a misguided idea to build a “Jazz Park” to replicate Chicago’s Millennium Park.

Tonight, we’re staying in New Orleans at the same hotel we stayed in leading up to our wedding. I’m flooded with memories of last March, and so is Amy. We had a little snack (if that’s possible) at Café Du Monde, and reminisced about the end of our wedding evening. I love being in this city, but I have a hard time imagining how it’s going to recover from the disaster last year. I’m glad we did what we could to boost the economy via our friends’ alcohol consumption.

It’s a Sunday afternoon in mid-summer, so it’s kind of dead outside. I was hoping to get some good pictures, but there really isn’t much to see that I haven’t snapped in past trips. We’ll be dining at NOLA tonight, then getting up earlyish to fly home. If I do manage any good pix tonight, you’ll be the first to know.

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Present success is no indication of future failure

In the New Yorker, James Surowiecki tells us to take a chill pill over Airbus’ current struggles.

In 2003, Business Week declared that Boeing was “choking on Airbus’ fumes,” and warned that Boeing’s “slip to No. 2 could become permanent.”

The problem with such prognostications is that they infer basic truths about a company’s prospects from its short-term performance. In fact, present success is often determined as much by context and chance as by fundamental viability. This is particularly true of the aerospace industry, because success is heavily dependent on a small number of big gambles. If you bet right, you look like a genius for a few years, even if the success of your bet was due to factors out of your control.

In the first few seasons after Jason Kidd joined the Nets, he would have two- or three-week stretches of lights-out shooting, leading commentators and sportswriters to announce that Kidd had “turned the corner” and become a good shooter.

Unfortunately, Jason Kidd is a career 40% shooter. All the good runs have been balanced out by below-average runs, leaving him exactly where he’s been since the start of his career: hitting 40% of his shots.

It doesn’t mean he’s not one of the best point guards of the last 30 years; he is. He’s just not a good shooter, and statistical blips are just that.