Thu 07 May 2009 |
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| Who are Larry & Chuck? I have absolutely no idea, although I’ve been wracking my brains all morning. But there it is — on a cute little orange post-it: "Larry and Chuck," with "2nd" written under the names. I’d better figure it out soon because it’s on my calendar for today.  This post-it could mean anything, and trust me, that I can’t think of any Larry & Chuck in my life is totally irrelevant. "2nd" could be second floor. Where? In my building? At my gym? Somewhere in this vast and varied city? Maybe I made an appointment to look at wholesale leather jackets in the garment district, and Larry and Chuck are my guys. Maybe not. I haven’t had a contact there in years, and the mediocre quality of my current jacket proves it. Could it be a TV show? Yeah, but not even I would write 2nd, rather than Channel 2. Or chan2, which I could interpret as “change to.” Change to what? One thing it can’t be is the 2nd of the month, because it's "posted" on the 9th. Looks like I'm going to miss the whole thing. Whatever the whole thing is . . . Beyond Post-Its I leave notes to myself in every conceivable place, and not just on post-its. (How ever did we manage before these sticky little wonders, I wonder.) I write on every manner of matter: my appointment books, sure, but also on pads, random pieces of paper, and in Notebooks of all Nations. I am the crazy lady in CVS buying those notebooks in every size, color, pattern, and type, all ostensibly for specific purposes — and all of which invariably become hopelessly mixed up, so that my daily TO DO list often ends up in the financial notebook, which is labeled $$$$$ just in case I forget, or in the book labelled "The Blog & I, Part Deux," not to be confused with the original "Blog and I," a large pink spiral bound notebook with side pockets and a very jazzy cover. I even have notebooks, smaller though, and with plain covers, for various illnesses I've had, including "Gallstones I Have Known," and "Into the Bowels Of Hell." In the kitchen I write on paper towels. In the bathroom on toilet paper: I usually find these, weeks later in the pocket of my bathrobe when it’s about to be laundered. If I’m lucky. Many a note has been washed and dried, never to be deciphered again by human brains. I mean, not even the guys on CSI could read these soapy scribblings after 2X Ultra Tide With Bleach gets through with them. One can only guess what would become of them if I used 3X Ultra. Cryptic But Clear? Some of my notes are cryptic but clear — an oxymoron if ever I heard one. I mean, they’re clear to me. HC/C stands for hair cut and color. The word MO with little musical notes around it means an opera that night at the Metropolitan Opera. (Although MO could also mean Motive & Opportunity, or Modus Operandi, or Milk of Magnesia, any of which could led to ponderings of life's myriad mysteries.) Sometimes I even put the name of the opera and the curtain time. Not always. Arrived “early” recently, at 7:27, for an opera that started at 7:30, not the usual 8, and just managed to get to the seats in time. (They're strict at the Met: if you're late, you watch it on TV. Really.) But Opera notes are generally easy. Even “M Butt,” though terribly crude sounding for such a poignant piece of Puccini, was, clearly Madama Butterfly. Loved it. But how about the Post-it I found stuck to my computer a few years back that said PRO WAR? Which I am decidedly not. It turned out to mean: Protest War, and now that I’ve deciphered it, I can explain. I had decided that since kids on campuses aren’t protesting this lousy war, then we geezers have to. I even have a name for us: Geezniks. So, when Bush was at the UN, I had made myself a note to go. I figured this out in time, but alas, I had a crack in my sacroiliac. Well it wasn’t really a crack, but sprain doesn’t rhyme with sacroiliac, or even back, and we do so love to wax lyrical even when we are most cranky. So what with the back pain/sprain, not to mention the eye strain (from reading all these notes?), I didn’t go to the rally. But at least I knew where I was supposed to be. As opposed to, say, Larry and Chuck’s place, on 2nd. Ooh. Could that be 2nd Avenue? Yeah it could. So what. Grocery lists are really bad when you’re standing in Aisle 3 staring blankly at that piece of paper in your hand. Yesterday, something that looked like SOAPY LIQUOR turned out to be Ivory Liquid. Lucky thing my husband usually does the shopping. And then there’s those codes I use because I can’t bring myself to write the whole word or phrase. COL PREP means colonoscopy prep. Well, any fool could figure that one out, but I couldn’t bear to see those miserably evocative words in print. Not in my cute lime green Filofax agenda with the colored tabs — and special page for post-its! You know it’s bad, as Jason Robards so poignantly pointed out to his nephew in A Thousand Clowns, when you start making lists in the first place. And when your lists have lists, as Roz Chast has illustrated so well in The New Yorker, the comedy is taking a tragic turn. To be ruled by lists, by mundane minutiae, is the pits. (See below.) But if, at least, you can read them. . . Everyday, I throw out post-its, scraps of paper, and the pages of those little notebooks, where I have scribbled thoughts for articles, plans for travel, investment ideas, the names of people I’m supposed to get in touch with for something if only I could figure out who. And what. Now that I write a blog, I find notes like, “I came, I saw, I plotzed” on a square of toilet tissue. What kind of post did I have in mind when I wrote that? Chances are, we'll never know. "MERMAID CON ISLE" One warm Saturday, my appointment book revealed a note for what looked like MERMAID CON ISLE. This led to many pleasant thoughts. Was there a Mermaid Isle on the itinerary, I wondered, a place where mermaids tried to lure (con) you into doing something. . . And what would that be? Or was it really Mermaid Con Lisle, some new clothing line I was supposed to see involving cotton lisle (I could have so easily have left off the L), a silky natural material. And natural is so in this season. But maybe it was a new restaurant (even after that dreadful bout of food poisoning from eating those shrimp in Ocean Grove, I still love seafood.) And isn’t there a Mermaid Inn in Manhattan? Was I supposed to meet someone named Connie there? Conrad, maybe? Or could “con” be Spanish for “with” and I was going there with . . . Isle? Or Lisle? It could be the name of a rock group. Or a race horse. That's no weirder than Mine My Bird — and he won the Kentucky Derby! (My horse had a much nicer name. He came in 12th.) When I finally figured it out, it was the Mermaid Parade at Coney Island. (Of course! What else could it be?) I didn't go. Might have been fun, but by now I was in the mood for seafood. Preferably with a Spaniard wearing a silky shirt made from cotton lisle. Girls Just Want to Have Fun Months later . . . I find out that Larry and Chuck are actually Chuck and Larry, as in the movie,  I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry. (What’s with me and gay weddings? And I haven’t, hint, hint, been invited to a single one yet, even though I threatened to move to Iowa weeks ago.) Anyway, my brother the DP had said they’d be shooting that day on the 2nd floor of somewhere (never found out where), and that if I wanted to go to the shoot, I should call. By the time I had figured this out, it was too late (duh), and I was not happy. Okay, so the movie wasn’t all that great, but I liked some of the music, and it would have been fun to meet Larry and Chuck, AKA Chuck and Larry, AKA Kevin James and Adam Sandler. Maybe we would have hit it off, and could have drifted off together to the Mermaid Parade— or, better yet, the Mermaid Inn for a couple of beers. Of course, I’d have to find the address. Quick! Hand me a Post-it: Got to make a note of that. Does anyone else have this problem: Post-it Traumatic Syndrome (or PITS)? Let me know. |
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Comments
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Bitter Patter
NO LAUGHING MATTER:
Did Demi Moore overdose
on laughing gas??
That's what's being reported
to those of us at:
A DEVOUT COWARD
GOES TO THE DENTIST
Have you seen The Artist? Seeing it mentioned at
The Golden Globes reminded me that that not ALL movies are
Incredibly Loud!
Do NOT Google Santorum.
I warned you . . .
I did it!
I actually got that
LITTLE BLACK DRESS!
How hard was it?
Click on the link above.
I also got my iPhone.
It's great.
Thank you Steve Jobs
Wherever you are.
Just as I posted I WAS THE GIRL PHANTOM, I found a website called The Ghost Who Blogs about The Phantom comics:
http://falkonthewildside.blogspot.com
Writing Comics. . .
Was a small but wonderful part of my checkered career, and doing a post about it brought back a lot of great memories. If you know any other women in NYC who wrote — or are writing — comics, tell me how to get in touch with them.
I'm on a watching-old-movies kick these days.
Great way to lose yourself.
If you're lucky, you'll never be found.
REVIEWS TO PERUSE
I'm All Right, Jack:
"Jack" is not just all right, it's totally delightful and fresh as a daisy after all these years (made in 1959), with Sellers, although not technically the lead, giving the brilliant performance that launched him as an international star. He plays an all-too-zealous union leader and father of a blonde bombshell who falls for Stanley, the British Upper Class Twit played, also to perfection, by Ian Carmichael, who you might remember from the Lord Peter Wimsey series. The makeout scenes between the the Twit and the Bombshell are priceless. But what is Stanley doing in this working class atmosphere anyway? Working. And too well at that. Forced by financial circumstances too dreary to discuss, he gets a job in his uncle's factory and messes things up for the other workers by, well, working, and thus making his fellow employees look bad. The film takes a big shot at unions — but also at management: they are manipulating white-collar thieves who'll do anything for a buck. Or a pound. Except for the ones, like Major Hitchcock, played by Terry Thomas, who are just plain lazy and inept. Needless to say, Stanley foils everybody's plans, labor and management alike, to my great joy and delight. Oh, and on top of everything else, Margaret Rutherford plays dotty dowager Aunt Dolly. Delicious!
The Big Lebowski:
What can you say that hasn't been said before: brilliant, inspired, with some of the most memorable lines ever to come out of a movie, the most quoted being "The Dude abides." Oh yes. For anyone who hasn't yet seen the film, and it's now out in a special Blu-Ray edition if that floats your bowling ball. The Dude in question, played to perfection by Jeff Bridges, is an out-of-work pothead who is roughed up and has his rug destroyed by some thugs mistaking him for another, bigger, Lebowski. The Dude is really upset about this because, man, "that rug really tied the room together," which The Dude says with all seriousness and not a trace of irony, a great comic touch considering the condition his condition is in. Oh, and besides "Just Dropped In," all the music is perfect for the film. The plot, according to Wikipedia, which has been known to be wrong, is "loosely based on Raymond chandler's novel, The Big Sleep." Could be. But who cares. It involves a bowling competition, "the occasional acid flashback," a trophy wife, a group of German nihilists, a kidnapping gone awry, a mad millionaire and his lackey, in another great performance by Philip Seymour Hoffman. Actually, they're all great performances. Never a fan of John Goodman before or since, he is brilliant in this film. And so are John Turturro, overacting his little heart out, Steve Buscemi in a nerdy, needy role that makes you marvel at his star turn in Boardwalk Empire, and even the actors in the smaller parts, especially Julianne Moore and Sam Elliott. Elliott plays The Stranger (God? Everyman? The part of us that roots for the bad boy?) who elicits from Bridges the immortal words, "The Dude abides." Which prompts The Stranger to comment to the audience: "Don't know about you but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin' he's out there. The Dude. Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I sure hope he makes the finals." We'll never know about the bowling trophy because there's never been a sequel to this 1998 film by the great Coen Brothers, and I hope there never will be. It just abides, as all great films do.
Prince of the City:
Okay, the criticisms of this movie are not totally unfounded: it's too long, and Treat Williams may have overacted a bit, although I found him so deliciously charming I couldn't care less, and there's one part concerning the Jerry Orbach character I just didn't understand. But get over it, The New Yorker, this is one powerful movie. And yes, Dog Day Afternoon it isn't, but what it? The DVD has a great special feature with Williams (I so want to call him Treat) and Sidney (what the hell: I once made a meatloaf sandwich for the man) that explains a lot about filmmaking in general and this movie in particular. Also, Sidney's views on good and evil, and how things are not so black and white as you think. I loved it.
Bad Day At Black Rock:
Recommended on TCM by Robert Osbourne as a film he originally had no interest in seeing, then loved it, and by Alex Baldwin, who pointed out the great actors in the cast, including Lee Marvin, Ernest Brognine and Dean Jagger. Well, after all that, I had to like it, right? I did. A lot. It was a Good Day On My Couch.
Behind the Scenes Stuff: Spencer Tracey was off drinking and wouldn't commit to the film until the producers (who wanted him desperately) told him that they had Alan Ladd, at which point Tracey grabbed it. He was perfect for the part, wearing a dark suit and tie the entire time in a western setting, pulling it off perfectly. Other than that "fashion statement," the film makes a strong case against racism: the hatred of the Japanese during WW2. See it.
Song of The Thin Man:
I usually like these frothy, silly, suave, utter unrealistic films from the 30s and 40s, with William Powell and Myrna Loy as the couple we'd all like to be — if only we had the looks, brains, money, a huge capacity for drinking and a dog like Asta. But this one was a stinker, rather than a stinger, or maybe a sinker, because it turned out to be the last, not to mention the least, in the series. Watch any of the others four sequels, but not this one: Even the pooch jumped the shark.
The Children's Hour:
It had its moments, and just looking at Audrey Hepburn makes life worth living, but mostly I kept thinking that the play, by Lillian Hellman, was so much better. It's about two young women runing a school for girls, who are accused by a hateful little brat of being (GASP!) lesbians. And although the closest we get in this 1961 production to using that actual term is the word "unnatural," it's enough to ruin their lives. A young Shirley McClaine is worth seeing in this, and James Garner, and Audrey Hepburn is, well, Audrey Hepburn. The rumor of the love that dare not speak its name is totally untrue — or is it? And I'll say no more, because you should see the movie for yourself, imperfect as it may be, as is Life Itself.
by martinis alone,
I like this blog:
grapesandgreens.blogspot.com
BITTER PATTER
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Comments
I have PITS!!!!
I actually have piles of post its and every 3 days I transfer the pile to a Big Things To Do List ( I love to crumple up the little post it after it's transfered:-)...I complete a random few, cross them off and then add the Things To Do List to a pile of Things To Do Lists...funny to see the same entries from a whole year ago!!! Not really funny actually kind of frustrating!!!
Thanks for the entry!!
I'll be sending this to my daughter see has the PITS.
I had a suggestion for Chuck & Larry - new Abbot and Costello routine with Larry on 2nd.
It's so twisted-funny to me that I also cannot recall why I wrote some of my little notes, phone numbers, names, and addresses.
Isn't it wonderful that there is just one more thing to add to the mysteries of life?!?!;-)
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