Five words: Scorsese wins for Best Director.
Not much needs to be said beyond that. I'm still shocked that his first Oscar was for The Departed and not Goodfellas, but, I suppose, better late than never. Congrats to him and the entire cast.
The best actor and actress awards didn't shock me; Helen Mirren, who looked incredible for a woman of 62 (although Diane Keaton, at 61, also looked phenomenal), supposedly turned in one of the best performances ever committed to screen. And I give kudos to Forest Whitaker, who is always dead-on perfect. I didn't see The Last King of Scotland, but I remember three of his many performances -- The Crying Game, The Color of Money and Fast Times At Ridgemont High -- as proof that no matter what type of film or what role he fills, he hits it out of the park.
I feel badly for Eddie Murphy; I think Alan Arkin is great so it's not a disappointment that he won (Glengarry Glen Ross and Grosse Point Blank are two of my Arkin favorites). Either way, I hope Eddie Murphy has more Dreamgirls-esque opportunities and no more Pluto Nash, Best Defense or Holy Man movies in his future. I'm glad Jennifer Hudson won; just watching her reaction and seeing how moved she was was a wonderful experience.
Overall, I enjoyed the show; Ellen DeGeneres was entertaining without being preachy, and the show seemed to move along, despite running 45 minutes over, in a fairly quick-paced manner. Having not bothered to see four of the five nominated films -- The Departed was the only one I did see -- I was really shocked that Scorsese and this film won. My only other disappointment other than Eddie Murphy not going home a winner was that Clint Eastwood didn't win anything for Flags Of Our Fathers or Letters From Iwo Jima.
But on this night, I'm just glad I saw -- and enjoyed -- the movie that won Best Director and Best Film. I'm a bit shocked -- and frankly, I'm not even sure I would have given The Departed Best Film -- but overall I'm just happy for Martin Scorsese. After failing to win a Best Director Oscar for Goodfellas, I'm sure he believed he'd die without winning an Oscar. I suppose better late than never.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
The Oscars and The Day The Music Died
The last time I got pulled over for exceeding the speed limit, a friend and I were going about 63 and on our way down to Maryland to see Billy Joel with another friend. Being that Maryland has state troopers who are only slightly more personable than most Colombian rebel death squads, I wasn't as surprised as I probably should have been. When I explained to Joey Bag O'Donuts that I was simply moving along with the rest of traffic, his emotionless response -- "License and registration, please" -- was the end of the discussion.
Today, I rarely find myself behind the wheel of a car; mostly, I find myself behind a bus driver or a cab driver. In lieu thereof, then, the "Everyone is doing it, I was just keeping up" excuse is perhaps a viable excuse for online file-sharing, but if at all, that viability is disappearing by the day.
I came across a recent article on CNN that highlighted this very fact. File-sharing has increasingly become part of our modern technological model; once the next high-speed advances vis-a-vis internet access become the norm -- perhaps not farther off than another few years -- we'll be able to download full-length, high-quality DVD's. For the time being, however, the majority of us -- those who download stuff online -- will be relegated to downloading a track or an entire CD's worth of music. There are several issues with legit music downloads, of course; downloading stuff from Apple's iTunes is simple, but the quality of those downloads is only mediocre, and more importantly, they only play through iTunes and/or the iPod. There are other avenues for legal downloads, but those are suspect, quirky, and are billed in bunches (either as a ten-pack or more of tracks or as a monthly download/membership fee). In short, the options for legal music downloads are underwhelming at best.
It's no shock that the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) has gone bananas over the lost revenue that illegal downloading has cost its industry; with the recent bankruptcy and disappearance of an institution, Tower Records, it's increasingly clear that people don't need the actual CD in their hands in order to enjoy music. Further, the RIAA sees that people would prefer to download a so-so quality version of a single than pay $18 for the CD with that track and 11 others. So their response to file-sharing has been predatory and vicious, and understandably so. People have found a way to circumvent the institutions which previously decried we pay $15 or more for a disc filled mostly with stuff with which we were disenchanted. Gone are the days people will buy an entire disc for that one elusive track; and while that, on some level, could eradicate or at least question the validity or usefulness of albums/discs as a whole, the real concern should be with the RIAA and their future.
While the RIAA has predicted the dangers of file-sharing by quoting stats showing record sales are down in a mjor way (with the fall of Tower Records, how could anyone argue?), I wonder whether this phenomenon -- file-sharing -- is the cause of the RIAA's problems, or a result thereof. To wit, if cd's were filled with good stuff -- on the level of the last several releases by Foo Fighters, Audioslave, Tom Petty, Pete Yorn, et al -- I don't imagine I'd consider skipping the store experience, online or otherwise. My personal distaste with the music industry these days isn't the exorbitant prices of CD's but instead the quality -- or lack thereof -- of most of what's on store shelves. Going after the nation's university students, of course, is one way to attack this problem, as indicated above; however, the arbitrary persecution of a few students at each of 250 universities across the country isn't going to stop the phenomenon. It certainly won't endear anyone to the RIAA any more than they already are; and judging by the mentality of modern youth, I imagine rather than extinguishing that fire, it will only make it burn hotter and bigger.
At some point, someone -- an individual, an entity, or an entire generation -- will finally challenge the RIAA and hopefully inspire both them and the MPAA (Motion Picture Association of America) to revisit the issue of copyrights and file-sharing. Despite the lack of high-high-speed internet, a casual search for the five nominees for Best Picture yielded about 500 unique, legitimate sources to download same online, illegally. Now that the RIAA has chosen its path -- and, in my opinion, chosen unwisely -- the MPAA, on this Oscar night, may want to pay attention to what is actually happening and react in an effort to cure the problem rather than persecute -- and prosecute -- it.
What I find interesting, of course, is of the five best-picture nominees, I enjoyed The Departed immensely but didn't bother seeing any of the other four, although Little Miss Sunshine is supposed to be great (and Dreamgirls, a non-nominee, was also supposed to be great). So Hollywood, while you lament decreasing profits and empty theater seats, blame Denon, Yamaha, Sony, Panasonic, Phillips and Samsung -- the manufacturers who drive home theater systems' prices into the ground -- and crappy movies and not people who are downloading DVD's. That problem won't be a reality for several more years, whether or not excessive, inhibitory copy-protection measures are implemented (didn't work with macrovision, etc.).
Hopefully, someday -- somehow -- the RIAA, and the MPAA as well, will focus on improving their products rather than prosecuting their duplication and improving the quality of the products themselves in lieu of their copy-protection.
This scenario is about as likely as Charlie Sheen receiving a Lifetime Achievement Award for his role in Navy Seals; but I like to think the glass is half-full even when it's nearly empty.
Nuke some popcorn, dim the lights, and enjoy the show!
Today, I rarely find myself behind the wheel of a car; mostly, I find myself behind a bus driver or a cab driver. In lieu thereof, then, the "Everyone is doing it, I was just keeping up" excuse is perhaps a viable excuse for online file-sharing, but if at all, that viability is disappearing by the day.
I came across a recent article on CNN that highlighted this very fact. File-sharing has increasingly become part of our modern technological model; once the next high-speed advances vis-a-vis internet access become the norm -- perhaps not farther off than another few years -- we'll be able to download full-length, high-quality DVD's. For the time being, however, the majority of us -- those who download stuff online -- will be relegated to downloading a track or an entire CD's worth of music. There are several issues with legit music downloads, of course; downloading stuff from Apple's iTunes is simple, but the quality of those downloads is only mediocre, and more importantly, they only play through iTunes and/or the iPod. There are other avenues for legal downloads, but those are suspect, quirky, and are billed in bunches (either as a ten-pack or more of tracks or as a monthly download/membership fee). In short, the options for legal music downloads are underwhelming at best.
It's no shock that the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) has gone bananas over the lost revenue that illegal downloading has cost its industry; with the recent bankruptcy and disappearance of an institution, Tower Records, it's increasingly clear that people don't need the actual CD in their hands in order to enjoy music. Further, the RIAA sees that people would prefer to download a so-so quality version of a single than pay $18 for the CD with that track and 11 others. So their response to file-sharing has been predatory and vicious, and understandably so. People have found a way to circumvent the institutions which previously decried we pay $15 or more for a disc filled mostly with stuff with which we were disenchanted. Gone are the days people will buy an entire disc for that one elusive track; and while that, on some level, could eradicate or at least question the validity or usefulness of albums/discs as a whole, the real concern should be with the RIAA and their future.
While the RIAA has predicted the dangers of file-sharing by quoting stats showing record sales are down in a mjor way (with the fall of Tower Records, how could anyone argue?), I wonder whether this phenomenon -- file-sharing -- is the cause of the RIAA's problems, or a result thereof. To wit, if cd's were filled with good stuff -- on the level of the last several releases by Foo Fighters, Audioslave, Tom Petty, Pete Yorn, et al -- I don't imagine I'd consider skipping the store experience, online or otherwise. My personal distaste with the music industry these days isn't the exorbitant prices of CD's but instead the quality -- or lack thereof -- of most of what's on store shelves. Going after the nation's university students, of course, is one way to attack this problem, as indicated above; however, the arbitrary persecution of a few students at each of 250 universities across the country isn't going to stop the phenomenon. It certainly won't endear anyone to the RIAA any more than they already are; and judging by the mentality of modern youth, I imagine rather than extinguishing that fire, it will only make it burn hotter and bigger.
At some point, someone -- an individual, an entity, or an entire generation -- will finally challenge the RIAA and hopefully inspire both them and the MPAA (Motion Picture Association of America) to revisit the issue of copyrights and file-sharing. Despite the lack of high-high-speed internet, a casual search for the five nominees for Best Picture yielded about 500 unique, legitimate sources to download same online, illegally. Now that the RIAA has chosen its path -- and, in my opinion, chosen unwisely -- the MPAA, on this Oscar night, may want to pay attention to what is actually happening and react in an effort to cure the problem rather than persecute -- and prosecute -- it.
What I find interesting, of course, is of the five best-picture nominees, I enjoyed The Departed immensely but didn't bother seeing any of the other four, although Little Miss Sunshine is supposed to be great (and Dreamgirls, a non-nominee, was also supposed to be great). So Hollywood, while you lament decreasing profits and empty theater seats, blame Denon, Yamaha, Sony, Panasonic, Phillips and Samsung -- the manufacturers who drive home theater systems' prices into the ground -- and crappy movies and not people who are downloading DVD's. That problem won't be a reality for several more years, whether or not excessive, inhibitory copy-protection measures are implemented (didn't work with macrovision, etc.).
Hopefully, someday -- somehow -- the RIAA, and the MPAA as well, will focus on improving their products rather than prosecuting their duplication and improving the quality of the products themselves in lieu of their copy-protection.
This scenario is about as likely as Charlie Sheen receiving a Lifetime Achievement Award for his role in Navy Seals; but I like to think the glass is half-full even when it's nearly empty.
Nuke some popcorn, dim the lights, and enjoy the show!
Friday, February 23, 2007
Jurisprudence
Among all the pressure we're facing at work, I have Jury Duty with which to contend. So as of this morning, I'll be sequestered away for long hours, replete with meager, paltry compensation, lousy take-out, stilted, awkward companionship and little or no access to television, newspapers, the Internet and, worse of all, the Weekly World News.
And don't get me started on if they actually pick me for a trial ;)
Whether it's good news or bad, I'll be back tomorrow. Meanwhile, enjoy today's other post as a sign that New York City is still Gotham and not Disney East.
And don't get me started on if they actually pick me for a trial ;)
Whether it's good news or bad, I'll be back tomorrow. Meanwhile, enjoy today's other post as a sign that New York City is still Gotham and not Disney East.
File Under: "Introducing Our New BYOB Policy"
Say it ain't so!
Multiple Choice:
a) Bring Your Own Booze
b) Bobble Yolanda's Outrageous Boobs
c) Buy Your Own Bitch
Multiple Choice:
a) Bring Your Own Booze
b) Bobble Yolanda's Outrageous Boobs
c) Buy Your Own Bitch
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Paradise (Not Quite) By The Dashboard Lights
Timing is everything. At least that's what I hear when it comes to Nascar racing, who you ultimately wind up meeting and marrying, and how my weekend eventually transpired.
Sometime after Thursday was in full swing, while I was contemplating my own weirdness and that of others, a friend got in touch with me to see whether I was planning on being around this weekend. He was the second uber-giant (read: over 6/4) friend within the span of a couple days to advise me there was a recently-announced get-together in Chinatown (NYC) and wanted to see if a) I was going; and b) if he could crash at my place.
In the ordinary course, I am usually in the loop when it comes to interstate get-togethers; then again, that's usually because I'm the one (if not one of the two) arranging the get-togethers in the first place. Neither here nor there; I told him I knew about the party but I was planning on washing my hair in its stead. In either case, I haven't (yet, perhaps) made the full-on jump back into weekly hockey, so I didn't have any problem with him crashing at my place, despite wondering whether my friend (6'6) would actually fit in my apartment in horizontal fashion. He's already hung out at my place (he's from California, so him having previously visited my place is not exactly a done deal) so he knew he'd fit on the couch, so I told him as long as he would be okay, his hanging at my place was no problem.
So he arranged to get to my place sometime Saturday morningish, which was fine with me; I had some things to handle but he's low-maintenance. I had a bottle of Diet Coke in the fridge and a high-speed net connection and that was all he really needed. That night was the party, so I did my errands out and about in NYC, he did his thing, we both got ready for our respective plans, he went to the party, I went out and did my thing, and by 4:30 Sunday morning we were both back at my place, weary but the wiser therefore.
He spent late morning Sunday at a prearranged brunch at Dock's on the east side (the site of one of Kaia's and my early dates, and, incidentally, highly recommended although a bit pricey) and I did some work before heading out to do a few more errands and to see a friend who I'd promised some face time.
By the time he got back to my place, it was late Sunday and he was due to leave on Monday afternoon, so we opted to chill a bit Monday morning before a) he got his stuff packed and himself ready to roll; and b) I got myself showered and to the office for a late but relatively reasonable President's Day workday. So we wound up chilling out and I hit the office in the early afternoon; meanwhile, he prepped himself and discovered the airline swapped out one of his flights (most likely a Jet Blue-related snafu) so he wound up staying at my place until late/early Monday night/Tuesday morning.
I had an early-ish morning appointment to address so I knew I'd be a bit late getting into the office, but while I normally prefer getting in before 9, this was the first time since November I'd gone two days in a row without being in the office before 10. It's a relative conundrum; the City agency at which I spend nearly all my out-of-office time was relocating within their building, so while there was plenty to do on my end, it was sort of like treading water waiting for a race to start. There was, is and always will be pressure on me time-wise, but the urgency wasn't quite there because there was nowhere for me to submit papers, call for verification or status of my matters, or even e-mail or fax to follow up on matters that I'd been balls-to-the-wall busy with as recently as a week ago.
On the other side of the coin, the rest of the office is in full-court press mode; we received the newest annual figures recently, and since then we as a unit have been going 110% since. Papers being printed, papers being received, papers being copied, boxes of papers to be separated, ordered, listed and organized are piling up and, for the most part, there's another month of this frenetic pressure until the middle of March. So while my immediate situation is a bit calm -- oddly so, something I'm far from used to -- everything seems to be moving full-speed ahead.
The weirdest part in all of this, especially spending as much time with my friend as I did, was that I spent very little phone time with Kaia. This morning, as I finished my appointment and headed to the office, I gave her a buzz -- despite it being a bit early for her -- just so I could hear her voice. I'm sure some scientific study could explain to me why the busy pace, the pressure and the chaos seemingly, like magic, disappears when I speak to her for the first time in awhile, but all I know is hearing her voice leveled my artificial horizon and set me back to normal, whatever that is.
The epilogue to this, of course, is my friend got back to Cali, I got to my office, and Kaia got woken up a bit earlier than she expected. But she didn't seem much to mind.
Another happy ending, at least for today.
Sometime after Thursday was in full swing, while I was contemplating my own weirdness and that of others, a friend got in touch with me to see whether I was planning on being around this weekend. He was the second uber-giant (read: over 6/4) friend within the span of a couple days to advise me there was a recently-announced get-together in Chinatown (NYC) and wanted to see if a) I was going; and b) if he could crash at my place.
In the ordinary course, I am usually in the loop when it comes to interstate get-togethers; then again, that's usually because I'm the one (if not one of the two) arranging the get-togethers in the first place. Neither here nor there; I told him I knew about the party but I was planning on washing my hair in its stead. In either case, I haven't (yet, perhaps) made the full-on jump back into weekly hockey, so I didn't have any problem with him crashing at my place, despite wondering whether my friend (6'6) would actually fit in my apartment in horizontal fashion. He's already hung out at my place (he's from California, so him having previously visited my place is not exactly a done deal) so he knew he'd fit on the couch, so I told him as long as he would be okay, his hanging at my place was no problem.
So he arranged to get to my place sometime Saturday morningish, which was fine with me; I had some things to handle but he's low-maintenance. I had a bottle of Diet Coke in the fridge and a high-speed net connection and that was all he really needed. That night was the party, so I did my errands out and about in NYC, he did his thing, we both got ready for our respective plans, he went to the party, I went out and did my thing, and by 4:30 Sunday morning we were both back at my place, weary but the wiser therefore.
He spent late morning Sunday at a prearranged brunch at Dock's on the east side (the site of one of Kaia's and my early dates, and, incidentally, highly recommended although a bit pricey) and I did some work before heading out to do a few more errands and to see a friend who I'd promised some face time.
By the time he got back to my place, it was late Sunday and he was due to leave on Monday afternoon, so we opted to chill a bit Monday morning before a) he got his stuff packed and himself ready to roll; and b) I got myself showered and to the office for a late but relatively reasonable President's Day workday. So we wound up chilling out and I hit the office in the early afternoon; meanwhile, he prepped himself and discovered the airline swapped out one of his flights (most likely a Jet Blue-related snafu) so he wound up staying at my place until late/early Monday night/Tuesday morning.
I had an early-ish morning appointment to address so I knew I'd be a bit late getting into the office, but while I normally prefer getting in before 9, this was the first time since November I'd gone two days in a row without being in the office before 10. It's a relative conundrum; the City agency at which I spend nearly all my out-of-office time was relocating within their building, so while there was plenty to do on my end, it was sort of like treading water waiting for a race to start. There was, is and always will be pressure on me time-wise, but the urgency wasn't quite there because there was nowhere for me to submit papers, call for verification or status of my matters, or even e-mail or fax to follow up on matters that I'd been balls-to-the-wall busy with as recently as a week ago.
On the other side of the coin, the rest of the office is in full-court press mode; we received the newest annual figures recently, and since then we as a unit have been going 110% since. Papers being printed, papers being received, papers being copied, boxes of papers to be separated, ordered, listed and organized are piling up and, for the most part, there's another month of this frenetic pressure until the middle of March. So while my immediate situation is a bit calm -- oddly so, something I'm far from used to -- everything seems to be moving full-speed ahead.
The weirdest part in all of this, especially spending as much time with my friend as I did, was that I spent very little phone time with Kaia. This morning, as I finished my appointment and headed to the office, I gave her a buzz -- despite it being a bit early for her -- just so I could hear her voice. I'm sure some scientific study could explain to me why the busy pace, the pressure and the chaos seemingly, like magic, disappears when I speak to her for the first time in awhile, but all I know is hearing her voice leveled my artificial horizon and set me back to normal, whatever that is.
The epilogue to this, of course, is my friend got back to Cali, I got to my office, and Kaia got woken up a bit earlier than she expected. But she didn't seem much to mind.
Another happy ending, at least for today.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
The Weirdness Must End
Alas, in a genuine tribute to Madame Trouble, I've been racking my brain to come up with a five-spot of what makes me weirder than most people actually reading this post. Judging by the scattered smattering of readership the HoB has amassed, I'd say that's a pretty tall order; and yet, by all accounts, I'm sure if I dig deep enough I can come up with nary a half-dozen. So I'm going to try -- and I'm also going to point out what I find weird about other people. So pfffffffffffft.
First, I've officially switched teams. No, I'm not gay -- I mean that when I was a wee lad, I loved playing baseball and tennis; and I derived endless distraction while being solely focused on football and hockey on TV. Now that I've gotten my pubes, I'd have to say that I almost always watch baseball and tennis when it's on TV, but my preference is to play football and hockey. As for basketball, I used to love it (both playing and watching) as a kid, and now I can't be bothered to do either. So...um...that might be a weird thing.
Second, I've got enough music occupying my apartment -- on CD, LP, hard drive, mp3, iPod, and now in FLAC -- to listen to songs for the next twelve years without repeating the same song twice. So why is it that, more and more, the only time I spend actually listening to music per se is when I'm commuting (via iPod) or in a lounge and just kicking back? I've gotten my PC setup so organized that it downloads stuff while I'm not around -- thank you, BitTorrent -- and yet I spend more time downloading and fussing over music than actually listening to it. The one caveat, of course, is that I spend more time these days with a guitar in my lap, a pick in my mouth and a blinking cursor at the ready in case I want to jot down some chord progressions, lyrics and/or a list of stuff I need to buy at Duane Reade tomorrow.
Third, based on my typical commute a decade ago, I would spend approximately three hours in a moving vehicle heading into or out of Manhattan en route to my apartment. Now, I spend about forty-five minutes -- albeit in a bus -- en route to the office or my apartment. I stopped racing when I got rid of my Audi, so I essentially went from spending my entire commute and a good chunk of my weekends driving to not driving at all. Ever. This is the longest stretch of being a non-driver (ie an owner/operator of my own car/Jeep) that I've ever endured. And while I love driving -- racing, especially (although the way I do the former it's pretty much the latter anyway) -- I don't really miss not having to bother with a car in NYC.
Weird. Sort of.
Fourth, I put garlic in my eggs.
Before anyone gags and subsequently damages his/her LCD display, I've known people to put some repulsive things in/on other foods. There are shitloads of people who flavor their cooked scrambled eggs/omelettes with ketchup; almost all of Europe eats french fries with mayonnaise. And the Irish regularly consume something called black and white pudding, which, in actuality, is code for "herb-tinged asshole." If you've ever tasted black and white pudding -- especially anywhere in the United Kingdom -- you will no doubt be in an excellent position to confirm this.
So me lopping a sliced-up clove of garlic amongst a three-some of Grade A Jumbo's right before they are crepe-i-fied and subsequently omelette-o-fied isn't as bad as it sounds. In fact, I think people who just douse their omelettes with a dab of cheese -- American, cheddar and Swiss for the librarians and the agoraphobes in the house -- are missing the point. Eggs are the unifier of all types of different cuisines, even if you have no idea you're consuming eggs. The fact is lots of savory items go really well with eggs: herbs like thyme, rosemary, garlic and chives; country sausage; sweet/roasted peppers; curry and/or tabasco (just a dash of either); salmon (with a hint of dill); and the ever-popular onion.
I apologize if I've inspired hunger in anyone visiting here; it's just that I've never encountered anyone who consciously admitted to using garlic when preparing eggs for breakfast, and I've always wondered why. If that makes me weird, well by gum, than I'm weird, loud and proud.
Finally, in the five-hole, I survived a plane hijacking.
Yep, you read right.
'Twas a flight from the Virgin Islands -- a two-part connector, the first in the late afternoon and the second in the early evening on a New Years Eve back in the 1980's -- when my family and I boarded a flight back to NYC. After about four or so hours in the air, about an hour out of New York, the captain announced that a gentleman -- a Mr. Ali -- wished to go to Havana, Cuba, and the plane was now en route thereto.
I was still in high school at the time -- in fact, my sister and I were both high school students at the time -- and we were sitting next to one another in the front bulkhead while my parents were across the aisle to our immediate right. Once this announcement hit the speakers, and the entire plane realized this was not a joke, most everyone dispensed -- quickly -- of all their jewelry, especially anything that identified them as jewish. This was right after a TWA jet had been hijacked by some Muslim extremists (as if a nice elderly presbyterian couple would hijack a jet to Chaos Central) and stayed on the ground for around 50 days in Beirut, and when we heard we were going to Cuba, we were sort of puzzled. Apparently, Mr. Ali, the lone hijacker, hadn't heard -- while he was in prison -- that Carter signed an extradition treaty with The Land of Fidel that no longer granted hijackers asylum if they landed a hijacked plane in Cuba. So after a relatively bizarre hour and change in the air -- during which we were first advised to keep our hands in the air, then on the seats in front of us (for us bulkhead passengers, this was a conundrum) and then in our laps -- we began our approach to Cuba.
...On fumes, the pilot observed over the complimentary headphones -- as Mr. Ali, a skinny asswipe who remarkably resembled the late Gregory Hines shimmied from the rear of the plane toward the cockpit with a stewardess in front of him and a .38 special service revolvers in each of his hands -- and when we landed (roughly, and quite certainly the least hospitable landing I've ever experienced as a passenger), we were ringed on the runway, on each side of the plane, with as many emergency vehicles -- lights, sirens, strobes, etc. -- that were viably mobile in the state of Cuba. The plane ground to a halt, and after about ten minutes, Cuban MP's (they were wearing armbands, Smartypants) with Uzis boarded the plane and asked us "Que Pasa?" Rather than rack our brains ("How the fuck do you say cockpit in Spanish?"), we pointed in the direction of the cockpit, so they went and removed from the plane their newest temporary citizen, and that was it. We were escorted off the plane -- reluctantly, we agreed to temporarily leave so they could check for explosives and refuel us -- and since I was still a yoot, I opted to partake of cheeseburgers and ice cream rather than the rapacious cleavage and the promise of free cigars, both of which were ample for us gringos.
Ahh, to be young and stupid.
In either case, the weirdness wasn't being a passenger in a hijacking. What's weird about the story is that I asked permission -- which was granted by Mr. Ali -- to take a leak mid-hijacking. I'm proud to say that everything came out okay that day.
Maybe it's weird that I'll never return to the Virgin Islands ever again. But I think the real weirdness was my unwillingness to hold it in until we were there. Perhaps if I had continually pestered Mr. Ali with a whiny, nasal "Are we there yet?" every thirty seconds, things might have turned out differently -- for better or worse. Or maybe it's just weird that I have a quasi-flashback every time I hit the airplane bathroom.
Is that weird? ;)
First, I've officially switched teams. No, I'm not gay -- I mean that when I was a wee lad, I loved playing baseball and tennis; and I derived endless distraction while being solely focused on football and hockey on TV. Now that I've gotten my pubes, I'd have to say that I almost always watch baseball and tennis when it's on TV, but my preference is to play football and hockey. As for basketball, I used to love it (both playing and watching) as a kid, and now I can't be bothered to do either. So...um...that might be a weird thing.
Second, I've got enough music occupying my apartment -- on CD, LP, hard drive, mp3, iPod, and now in FLAC -- to listen to songs for the next twelve years without repeating the same song twice. So why is it that, more and more, the only time I spend actually listening to music per se is when I'm commuting (via iPod) or in a lounge and just kicking back? I've gotten my PC setup so organized that it downloads stuff while I'm not around -- thank you, BitTorrent -- and yet I spend more time downloading and fussing over music than actually listening to it. The one caveat, of course, is that I spend more time these days with a guitar in my lap, a pick in my mouth and a blinking cursor at the ready in case I want to jot down some chord progressions, lyrics and/or a list of stuff I need to buy at Duane Reade tomorrow.
Third, based on my typical commute a decade ago, I would spend approximately three hours in a moving vehicle heading into or out of Manhattan en route to my apartment. Now, I spend about forty-five minutes -- albeit in a bus -- en route to the office or my apartment. I stopped racing when I got rid of my Audi, so I essentially went from spending my entire commute and a good chunk of my weekends driving to not driving at all. Ever. This is the longest stretch of being a non-driver (ie an owner/operator of my own car/Jeep) that I've ever endured. And while I love driving -- racing, especially (although the way I do the former it's pretty much the latter anyway) -- I don't really miss not having to bother with a car in NYC.
Weird. Sort of.
Fourth, I put garlic in my eggs.
Before anyone gags and subsequently damages his/her LCD display, I've known people to put some repulsive things in/on other foods. There are shitloads of people who flavor their cooked scrambled eggs/omelettes with ketchup; almost all of Europe eats french fries with mayonnaise. And the Irish regularly consume something called black and white pudding, which, in actuality, is code for "herb-tinged asshole." If you've ever tasted black and white pudding -- especially anywhere in the United Kingdom -- you will no doubt be in an excellent position to confirm this.
So me lopping a sliced-up clove of garlic amongst a three-some of Grade A Jumbo's right before they are crepe-i-fied and subsequently omelette-o-fied isn't as bad as it sounds. In fact, I think people who just douse their omelettes with a dab of cheese -- American, cheddar and Swiss for the librarians and the agoraphobes in the house -- are missing the point. Eggs are the unifier of all types of different cuisines, even if you have no idea you're consuming eggs. The fact is lots of savory items go really well with eggs: herbs like thyme, rosemary, garlic and chives; country sausage; sweet/roasted peppers; curry and/or tabasco (just a dash of either); salmon (with a hint of dill); and the ever-popular onion.
I apologize if I've inspired hunger in anyone visiting here; it's just that I've never encountered anyone who consciously admitted to using garlic when preparing eggs for breakfast, and I've always wondered why. If that makes me weird, well by gum, than I'm weird, loud and proud.
Finally, in the five-hole, I survived a plane hijacking.
Yep, you read right.
'Twas a flight from the Virgin Islands -- a two-part connector, the first in the late afternoon and the second in the early evening on a New Years Eve back in the 1980's -- when my family and I boarded a flight back to NYC. After about four or so hours in the air, about an hour out of New York, the captain announced that a gentleman -- a Mr. Ali -- wished to go to Havana, Cuba, and the plane was now en route thereto.
I was still in high school at the time -- in fact, my sister and I were both high school students at the time -- and we were sitting next to one another in the front bulkhead while my parents were across the aisle to our immediate right. Once this announcement hit the speakers, and the entire plane realized this was not a joke, most everyone dispensed -- quickly -- of all their jewelry, especially anything that identified them as jewish. This was right after a TWA jet had been hijacked by some Muslim extremists (as if a nice elderly presbyterian couple would hijack a jet to Chaos Central) and stayed on the ground for around 50 days in Beirut, and when we heard we were going to Cuba, we were sort of puzzled. Apparently, Mr. Ali, the lone hijacker, hadn't heard -- while he was in prison -- that Carter signed an extradition treaty with The Land of Fidel that no longer granted hijackers asylum if they landed a hijacked plane in Cuba. So after a relatively bizarre hour and change in the air -- during which we were first advised to keep our hands in the air, then on the seats in front of us (for us bulkhead passengers, this was a conundrum) and then in our laps -- we began our approach to Cuba.
...On fumes, the pilot observed over the complimentary headphones -- as Mr. Ali, a skinny asswipe who remarkably resembled the late Gregory Hines shimmied from the rear of the plane toward the cockpit with a stewardess in front of him and a .38 special service revolvers in each of his hands -- and when we landed (roughly, and quite certainly the least hospitable landing I've ever experienced as a passenger), we were ringed on the runway, on each side of the plane, with as many emergency vehicles -- lights, sirens, strobes, etc. -- that were viably mobile in the state of Cuba. The plane ground to a halt, and after about ten minutes, Cuban MP's (they were wearing armbands, Smartypants) with Uzis boarded the plane and asked us "Que Pasa?" Rather than rack our brains ("How the fuck do you say cockpit in Spanish?"), we pointed in the direction of the cockpit, so they went and removed from the plane their newest temporary citizen, and that was it. We were escorted off the plane -- reluctantly, we agreed to temporarily leave so they could check for explosives and refuel us -- and since I was still a yoot, I opted to partake of cheeseburgers and ice cream rather than the rapacious cleavage and the promise of free cigars, both of which were ample for us gringos.
Ahh, to be young and stupid.
In either case, the weirdness wasn't being a passenger in a hijacking. What's weird about the story is that I asked permission -- which was granted by Mr. Ali -- to take a leak mid-hijacking. I'm proud to say that everything came out okay that day.
Maybe it's weird that I'll never return to the Virgin Islands ever again. But I think the real weirdness was my unwillingness to hold it in until we were there. Perhaps if I had continually pestered Mr. Ali with a whiny, nasal "Are we there yet?" every thirty seconds, things might have turned out differently -- for better or worse. Or maybe it's just weird that I have a quasi-flashback every time I hit the airplane bathroom.
Is that weird? ;)
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