more search phrase hijinx

Posted on March 18, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I had to delete one of my entries from January. I posted a rant about the Clique Girls—a 3-girl singing group marketed to the pre-teen set. I felt there was an inappropriate amount of sexuality used to pimp the group. The lead singer is only 12 years old and in the print promos she is always posed provocatively with a come-hither look.

The title of my post was:

“child p*rn courtesy of interscope records”

Since then, I’ve been getting hits from all over the plant by people using “child p*rn” as a search phrase. It made me feel dirty so I took the post down. What the hell is wrong with humanity? How did something like this work its way into the gene pool?

spirited evening

Posted on March 16, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I’ve seen many good plays but occasionally you get that rare night when every actor is firing on all cylinders and the material is strong and it’s being performed in a proper old theater.

CB I saw Nöel Coward’s Blithe Spirit at the Shubert Theater. The dialog was fast and clever and it was flying out of the mouths of some of the most accomplished actors in town. The show is in its infancy, just having opened a few days ago, and some lines of dialog were stepped on and dropped but it was a fun evening, regardless.

As good as the play is, that’s how bad the ad campaign is. Take a look at this ugly illustration. It makes me not want to see the play.

British theatrical treasure Angela Lansbury played a crazy old medium and Rupert Everett was the spirit-tormented husband. Everett was the big surprise. We thought he was going to be the weak link in the chain but he was terrific.

I like Nöel Coward’s England. His is the England where the sun never set on the Empire and every problem was solved with another round of dry martins. Money was never an issue. P.G. Woodhouse is like that. So is Woody Allen. Money isn’t part of the plot. It’s just there in abundance.

The Shubert is one of New York’s classic original theaters. It was was built in 1913. In the 1930s you could have seen Fred Astaire in Gay Divorce or Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story. In the 40s you could have seen Paul Robeson, Jose Ferrer and Uta Hagen in a legendary production of Othello. There’s lot of history on them boards.

cell phone jammer: the backlash begins

Posted on March 15, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

Someone from San Diego landed on my blog using the following search phrase:

How to get past a cell phone scrambler

Oh, is that so? Is it a war you’re looking for? You want a piece of my jammer? Who are you? Some smarty-pants pencil-pushing desk jockey from Verizon?

I’ll lay odds that if your tech guys invent a way to override my cell phone jammer, my tech guys (whom I’ve never met. They’re someplace in Hong Kong.) will invent a device to override your cell phone jammer override device. Pretty soon my bag will be weighed down with electronic espionage and counter-espionage gadgets.

I don’t mean to get all George W. Bush on you but bring it on, junior. I found out firsthand that when I respectfully ask someone to lower their voice, all I get is a dirty look and a suggestion that I go fuck myself. I didn’t want to get all illegal-Chinese-electronics on your ass but my hand was forced. I will fight for my right to nap on a quiet train.

* * *

Over the weekend I was listening to Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black. I hadn’t heard it in quite a while and I forgot how great it is. It’s a shame she’s such a train wreck because, ladies and gentlemen, that album is the real deal. It’s compelling and listenable from beginning to end. Nowadays, I only ever hear of her when she’s being picked on by the British tabloids. I hope like hell she can pull her shit together one of these days because I’d love to hear more from her. Poor girl.

* * *

I have a vicious bout of the old ennui this afternoon. Maybe it’s the relentless gray skies. Perhaps it’s too much Amy Winehouse. Hope it passes real soon.

is there a diner in your life?

Posted on March 13, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

Does this photo conjure up any memories for you?

Of course, I don’t mean this sign specifically but, do you have a diner in your life? A place to eat eggs and sip coffee with friends or family? Sitting alone with a newspaper is best of all. You can really scour your soul when you’re alone in a diner. I like sitting at the counter. You get the best service at the counter because you’re right in their face.

Diners are my favorite places on the planet. They’re so unpretentious and comfortable. They feel like home.

When I was in high school, before we were old enough to drink and hang out in bars, we use to meet at the L+K on Pearl Road to flirt with the cute waitresses. (Hi, Z.) At a hotel coffee shop we frequented on Bagley Road, I use to sit at a table and write in my journal. When my friends came in and saw me sitting alone writing, they would leave me alone and I would finish up and join them. I think they use to make fun of me but that’s okay. I didn’t mind being the fool. Still don’t.

New Jersey has some fantastic diners. Here’s where I go with 7-Year Old Daughter on Saturday afternoons for lunch:

Isn’t it a classic? I’ve been taking her here since she was 4. The waitresses know her and make a fuss when we come in. We have a favorite waitress and always make sure we get a booth in her section, even if we have to wait. My hope is that when Daughter is older, she’ll sit in these same booths with the same jukebox selections (they haven’t changed in decades) and say to herself, “This is where my dad used to take me when I was a kid. I love it here.”

Mary-Louise Gabler

Posted on March 11, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I saw Mary-Louise Parker (my pretend girlfriend) in the Broadway production of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler.

When it opened a few months ago, the critics were almost unanimous in their disdain so I expected very little. Out loud, everyone says that they don’t listen to the critics—especially New York theater critics. You won’t find a bigger bunch of malcontent failed writers and actors looking to tear down what they themselves could not build. But the truth is that EVERYONE listens to the critics.

I’ll admit that there were a few passages that were…ahhh…what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yea. Boring. A few scenes plodded along at too leisurely a pace. But I am pleased to report that, overall, I enjoyed it. Pretend Girlfriend (gawd, she’s cute) was in very fine form in the title role as a bored, depressed newlywed who becomes so despondent over her inability to control the lives of the people around her that she shoots herself in the head at the end of the play. Talk about your desperate housewife!

That fucking Ibsen is a real barrel of laughs, isn’t he? The last time I saw an Ibsen play, Master Builder, I ended up walking out at the intermission—something I had not done in over a decade. I think I’m through with Ibsen. I’ll stick with the Bard and leave the depressed Norwegians for the New York theater intelligencia.