Saturday, April 16, 2011

The King's Teeth

If at Firth...
Our media reporter reviews some of the newest film and TV offerings:


The King's Teeth: Following up on the success of The King's Speech, the same team returns to the oral theme which produced gold. This time, having somewhat overcome a stammer, King George VI (Colin Firth) finds that even a king is not immune to having terrible teeth in England. We follow the difficult, yet hilarious, search that his loving Queen makes to find just the right dentist, who can teach the King to keep his new false teeth in his mouth and to overcome a debilitating habit of losing them.

30 Rocky: The new guys at Comcast, who have replaced GE as owners of NBC, home to the former hit show 30 Rock, have a problem on their hands. So many of the funniest plots had revolved about the inherent arrogance and stupidity of GE's corporate ways that even Tina Fey has had a hard time coming up with new ideas. Also, and this has proved embarrassing, Comcast bean counters forced NBC to vacate its ancestral home in Rock Center for a studio in Hoboken. Sylvester Stallone joins the cast of the show-within-a-show injecting new excitement, not to mention great music. Sponsored by Stairmaster.

Ravi-shing!
Dancing With The Sitars: This Bollywood TV import has surprised more than a few critics who did not think that Ravi Shankar, the show's producer (and father of Nora Jones), could pull this off. American audiences took a while to warm up to this "new" ancient sound. But, the Boomer set loves this piece of musical nostalgia (who can forget George and his sitar), and the skimpy saris on the female partners also help. And, Oh, that tabla beat!

Get Shorter: A chuckler of a new comedy about a eponymous height-challenged mayor, Sidney Shorter. This multi-billionaire mayor finds that the whiny, scolding,  condescending, sarcastic methods which made him a great business success (and the subject of many lawsuits) do not work as well in politics. Deborah Messing stars as "the towering girlfriend," who manages to put the little guy in his place in a million funny ways. Plus, she's a babe and smarter than he is. She does not succeed in making us love him, but we do kind of feel sorry for him. Well, almost. Sponsored by Cole-Haan Elevated Shoes.

Bay Witch: An ingenious fusing of John Updike's Witches of Eastwick and Bay Watch. Three wealthy, young, scantily-clad witches wander the cold, windy beaches of Duxbury, MA in skimpy bikinis and see-through cover-ups thinking up some funny-evil pranks to play on hapless locals. The thin plots are balanced by the buxom baddies. Just pull up a lounger and tune-in to the hocus-pocus. Kinda like a "Charlie's Witches" with  less clothing. Starring The Kardashians.

Desperate Bradys: We never seem to tire of this TV-family, no mater how inane the plots, how vapid the characters, or how many actors in the original cast suffer bankruptcy or cocaine addiction, get loads of parking tickets, and become pole-dancers in West Hollywood. This time around, it's a reality show, in which the producers completely dispense with any semblance of fictional "Bradys" and focus on those crazy original cast members instead. Dreadful. But, wasn't it always? Why do we love this?

Friday, April 15, 2011

What's Green, Wears A Crown And And Gets Comped In Vegas?

"Only her hairdresser..."
Today is April 15 and our thoughts naturally turn to thinking about our government. Some of us can remember a time when we only thought about government a couple of times a year at most. No, really, I'm not making it up.

Back then, we still had this dreaded tax day for the minority of citizens and corporations who actually paid taxes; then, once in a while, we had to visit the DMV, which, in comparison, made paying taxes seem like fun; and, we occasionally had to go to the Post Office (we will not discuss the Draft Board). That's about it, and the DMV wasn't even the Feds! In my home state of New York, the DMV was the only reason we even had a state capital.

But, I am not thinking about taxes today; yesterday I dealt with the fact that Uncle Sam is the only one in the universe besides my daughter's co-ed private college (Cartier Institute for men, Tiffany College for women), who believes that I am wealthy. I am mad at my government today for infringing on my territory as a writer: the government is getting into the metaphor game.

By now, you all know about the Post Office gaff, in which they printed millions of Lady Liberty "Forever" stamps with a Wrong Lady photo. Using a fake Lady from a casino in Las Vegas on the official stamp seems like a perfect metaphor for what's false, cheap and shallow in our culture vs. what's truly valuable, honest, and hopeful. Caught with their pants down, did the PO apologize? Please. Their spokesman said that they would have chosen the same photo anyway even if they had know it was the wrong one....and then said they were reviewing their process. Oy.

We hear that Republicans have seized upon this gaff as a brilliant way for the PO to raise advertising revenue by actually selling "stamp-ads." I can't wait for my Wells Fargo mail to come with B of A stamps. You can make up your own bad combinations.

Dear Postals, please leave the metaphors and satire to writers and we will leave counterfeiting to you.

Not to be outdone by their postal cousins, the Air Traffic Controllers weighed in today as well. They must have been reading Steve Jobs biography to come up with this paradigm change: they are going to add a second controller to the airport tower night shifts to make up for the fact that current single-duty controllers take naps.

We are disrobing, being pawed and made to feel like uncommon criminals by the TSA (too long a story to tell here) in the security line so that we can climb to 38,000 feet and have the pilots all landing without guidance?

Dear Controllers, please stop making metaphors for government sleeping on our dimes and leave the comedy to Tina Fay, SNL and Rupert Murdoch's hair colorist!

We are about to launch into a protracted mind-numbing national discussion ad nauseam, not to mention really funny about whether or not we should spend $3.3 Trillion a year or $3.2 Trillion a year for these fine services noted above. This is basically about how many T-Bills the Chinese will buy before their fortune cookie says, "Man who tinkle into wind get wet and smelly."

As a road sign I recently read said so succinctly, "Buckle up, next million miles."

....and try to get Steve Jobs's private number. We need a good creative egomaniac billionaire perfectionist ( who isn't a whiny mayor) to tear it all down with one or two sensible, beautiful and totally outrageous ideas.

Monday, April 11, 2011

How It All Played In Peoria

Peorians rise up
Peorians are up in arms and taking to the town squares and the streets. They are taking out their anger and frustration on the political, corporate and social elite. No, we are not talking about that Middle West Peoria, Hollywood's favorite movie thermometer. We are talking about the fictional country called Peoria, deep in the heart of the Middle East.

Several decades ago, Peoria took a look around the world for a model on which it could build itself for the future generations of Peorians. They looked at the USSR (now Russia et al), England (now UK), France (still France, are you kidding?) and other countries. Finally, they hitched their wagons (real ones, not just metaphorical) to the American Star. Peoria became the cultural equivalent of a Fund Of Funds, tracking American business, politics, and society and reflecting those trends in its own way of life.

It must have seemed like such a good idea at the time.

It was "Morning In America" then and the Evil Empire was crumbling, stunned by the sledgehammer of Capitalism. The hostages had returned from Iran. The Gipper faced down the Traffic Controllers' Union. Suddenly, many Americans began to read the Business section instead of the comics and students flocked from the ashram to "business school."

Peorian Bowery Hotel
Hollywood went corporate. Harvard went corporate, The NBA, NFL, and MLBaseball went corporate (the NHL went nowhere, of course). New York City, including Soho, the Bowery, Tribeca, the Village, even the Upper West Side (gasp!) went corporate; even NYC mayors went corporate before they went ga-ga.

Slowly at first, but then very quickly, when you said "China," you were not just talking about the relatives coming over for dinner. Even Mao's China went corporate! With a vengeance (real vengeance, not just metaphorical).

So, you can understand why Peoria became infatuated. They too figured out that the only way they could pay for their families healthcare was to work for large corporations. They too traded something called "profit sharing, " AKA money, for stock options. They began investing in 401K's tax free, and watched in amazement and with gratitude as their monthly statements came etched in gold. Finally, even middle class Peorians, which is as middle as middle can get, were able to do exactly as the truly wealthy Peorians and Americans could do, use other people's money to make even more. They could borrow.

Looking back, some thoughtful Peorians (a dying breed, as in you know where) began to wonder if it was a good thing that plumbers, electricians, doctors, salespersons, CEO's were spending an enormous amount of time day-trading instead of working. And, it turned out that many of them were trading in stocks of "internet" or "tech" companies that did not yet actually have products or customers, which turned out to be not as good as bank analysts and stock raters had preten....ah, hoped

Great Peorian Bubbles I and II
Meanwhile, Peoria had adopted the two-year long Presidential campaign, another capitalist miracle in that it earned millions for Peorian media companies and the political consulting industry, although the candidates sometimes looked like those to-good-to-be-true internet products. In short, Peorians too got the leaders they deserved, watching it all on huge TV's in their huge homes, in banks, at airports, and at the deli waiting for a Peorian's favorite meal, a 1,000 calorie sandwich and a 2,000 calorie drink (love really is blind, and fat too).

Since Peoria is in the Middle East, it has lots of enemies, real and imagined: Families, tribes, religions, sects. And these are just inside Peoria. So, when its idol was forced to borrow trillions of dollars from those very same Chinese to find Weapons of Mass Destruction that were amazingly like those pretty much non-existent internet products, political leadership qualities and stock options, Peoria too began to borrow and fight, borrow and fight.

Federal Reserve Of Beijing
This went along pretty well as long as Peorians tuned into Foxoria (oh, yes they copied this too), until they began to hear rumors that some Peorian banks may have over-extended themselves in real estate. Well, okay, every Peorian bank, its Treasury, Federal Reserve, its Fredoria & Fannoria Macs, Peoria Internationl Group Insurance, even Peorian Sachs, Holy of Holies, was going bust overnight, all of them AAA rated by their own raters!

You know how this story goes, having lived it yourselves. The smartest, bravest and richest in the Peorian land saved the Whole Shebang. Soon, all the bad stuff had gone up in a puff of smoke (Acapulco Gold?) and bank profits and bonuses returned. Naturally, Peorians celebrated their deliverance by reforming healthcare, promising (with a wink) to improve education, and once again buying SUV's, made in Peoria by Peorian hands, on Peorian machines. Peorian banks were forced to  buy the really ugly banks for pennies and to change their logos so that executives could avoid any jail time.

Mandarin Lesson
And, just like us, Peorians have just dodged a fiscal bullet and avoided having to shut down their magnificent government. They have, yet once again, saved Planned Parenthood, although to some it might appear that the most truest of true things one might say about both Americans and Peorians is that they wish that the parents of the num-sculls left in charge of everything had done more parent planning and saved all of us a great deal of discomfort, not to mention hypocrisy.

Reportedly, the Peorian rioters chief demand is that every Peorian begin mandatory lessons in Mandarin.

To them we say: be careful, sometimes you get what you pray for.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Take This Job And Spend More Time With Your Family

                                                                          *
newt
Earthquakes, tsunamis, nuclear accidents, widespread political revolts, our third war, another earthquake. You'd think that Republican kingpins trying to make Uncle Sam into the Biggest Loser overnight could have picked a better time to get noticed.

Newt Gingrich knew how to get attention. We're talking about the real Newt back in '94, not the current Okay For Prime Time Newt with the presidential haircut and the jowl-job. He had a hissy-fit back then over being relegated to the back of Air Force One and played chicken with Clinton The First, when absolutely nothing else was happening. Bill put Newt into the deep fryer and only the Pope could get him out of it.

This is the most boring Federal Shutdown ever, being put on by the most boring set of numbskulls this side of the Mac twins, Fannie and Freddie. Ho-hum. Fellows, next time you do this, don't try it a week before Tax Day, because everybody, we mean everybody absolutely does not give a little nit about shutting down the Whole Shebang on April 8. Talk about Biggest Losers!

                                                                           *
I Think I Can Can Someone
Now here's a guy who knows how to get attention, Mayor Billionaire. He has publicly admitted to making a mistake. Good grief; will he have to go to bed without his Teddy?

Cathleen P. (for Phew!) Black, whom the mayor insisted on hiring as school chancellor, despite not being able to find a single other human being who thought it was a good idea, "resigned" by "mutual agreement" yesterday.

Let's be very clear about this. She was fired, royally fired by His High Royal-ness.

Why is it do you think that most of us get fired, canned, eliminated, dusted, smoked, summarily dismissed, shown the door, when CEO's, Chancellors and their chums get "to spend more time with their families (who are probably horrified)," " to seek new opportunities?" Or, how about Warren Buffet's recently departed lieutenant who got to do both: "to spend more time investing for his family." Except that he was fired for investing for his family in the companies Buffet was about to buy every day. That guy got canned too.

Poor Cathy. She got fired twice in one year! Over at Hearst, when they brought in a new guy from Conde Nast to replace her, she was "elevated" to make room for him. Yeah, except that it was a one way elevator to the lobby. Could it be that The Little Mike That Could was the only person in the universe who  thought that she had actually gotten promoted?

Yes. The only question we have now is: how big will her city pension be?

                                                                              *

"For The Double-Dip Hypothesis"
Speaking of which, here is a scoop. the Nobel Prize Committee has added a prize for Pension Mathematics. Apparently, there are only about 100 or so people in the world who can do this specialized form of calculating. Good news: 98 of them reside right here  in New York State.


copyright2011twmcdermott

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Dutch Treats

Chiquita
Many of you have written: what have you been doing, where have you been, what did you read? Well, actually, we may have imagined that you asked those questions. Whatever. We have been traveling and then re-entering.

While we were away, all hell broke loose: earthquakes, tsunamis, nuclear accidents, and Africa & the Middle East erupting in popular revolts.  We are once again at war, this time in Libya, although we are calling it every other name in the book in ways that would make Orwell give a little "told you so" nod.

One morning, it happened to be March 19, the 8th Anniversary of Shock And Awe, we sat on the porch, watched Chiquita move about, and read Kay Ryan, American Poet Laureate 2008-2010. We found one poem that seemed more than apt for our world at the moment, or perhaps, at any moment: Here it is:

Dutch 

Much of life
is Dutch
one-digit
operations

in which
legions of
big robust
people crouch

behind
badly cracked
dike systems

attached

by the thumbs
their wide
ballooned-pantsed rumps    
up-ended to the
northern sun

while, back
in town, little
black-suspendered
tulip magnates
stride around.

Can this be said any better? We do not think so.

On another morning, shortly before we left, our friend Dunmore Townes III stopped by to rock and chat on the porch. Mr. Townes is the Poet Laureate Emeritus of Saint James, and upon leaving he gave us this as yet unpublished poem:

The Island Men Are Walking


The island men
are walking
in the morning,

"Flat-bed" Island Work Truck
north and
south
along Bay Street.

each stride,
a stanza
written on stone.

The island men
    are walking,

high tide
    and low.

I want to walk
like these island men,

slow, or near to slow,
arms pulling
in their own arcs
to their own time.

I want a walk
to put the capital "D"
in Dignity.

I'll get
where my feet
are going

when they
want to
take me.

The island men
are walking
in the morning,

not with a purpose,
but purposefully.




Ed Note: Dutch is from Say Uncle, 2000 Grove Press, New York. Copyright 2000 by Kay Ryan
The Island Men Are Walking is Copyright 2011 Dunmore Townes III.











Monday, April 4, 2011

My Life In The Gardens, Sort Of

Laguna Beach & Hills
Contributing to a special House & Garden issue might seem like a reasonable thing to do, except that a year in the real estate market has left me numb about houses, any houses. And, there is the fact that I do not know compost about gardening.

We live in a town where one could hurl a handful of seed and hit an award-winning gardener or even two. The Garden Club has even met at our house a few times to discuss all kinds of green and flowery things. For all I know, the Little Garden Club may have spent some time here as well and I did not even see the members, because they’re so, well, little.

The plain truth is that I do not know anything about gardening. I do recall that once, in high school, a teacher or maybe it was a coach, called me a "blooming idiot," but he didn’t even mean that I was a bad gardener.

FHG, Station Square
I actually did make a kind of living for a while as a "Weedy-Man," while living in Laguna Beach, a perhaps the most beautiful California beach town. Laguna was a place where a human or a squirrel lucky enough to live there could drop any seed to the ground and it would grow rapidly. Anyone could have done it, even me, if I had tried.

By spring, all of Laguna:  canyons, avocado groves, hillsides, and even valuable empty lots would be vibrating with every conceivable plant and flower. But, of course, I do not remember their names, except for the nasturtiums, which grew in my neighbor’s garden.

The wild weeds, which thrived in the hills above the town and on those empty lots became fire hazards when the Santa Anna winds blew in from the desert and when the dry summer heat settled in.

I borrowed my landscaper roommate's blue VW Bug with a small open-bed trailer hitched to it. This machine never started properly, although, luckily, Bluebird Canyon,where we lived was all hill, so that I could coast down, jam it into second gear, and pop the clutch to start it up. 

FHG, Solum Crescent
We used scythes to cut the tall, thick grasses and those gas-powered spinning weed cutters for shorter stuff. These machines were remarkable only for their extremely annoying whirring sound and the spinning filament line’s habit of wearing out faster than George Foreman might say "Weed O-Matic."

This was an incredibly labor-intensive business, not so much for me; it soon became obvious to me that I was suited to management, not labor. It was hard work for my roommate's surfer-brothers and their friends, who became the weed-chopping crew. Like many another grand enterprise, it soon fizzled. Or, maybe the surf was up too often for the crew.

Later, I was able to turn this experience into a real “gardening” job working on a municipal crew.  We went into the hills above the town to do some serious weed-clearing to make fire-breaks. We started at 7am and quit around 2pm, or just in time to get in some good beach time. 

FHG, Deepdene *
Most of the crew had recently spent some time as guests of the state in various houses of detention, where they had gained experience working on other types of outdoor crews, although they referred to those as “gangs” for some reason. That prior work was important, because it meant that they knew how to deal with rattlesnakes, who can be quite annoying when you disturb them from slumber.

It may occur to you that most of my experience with things that grow are related to chopping them down, which, honestly, isn’t exactly the perfect background for writing about gardening.

I did happened to grow up in a place called Forest Hills Gardens, one of the country's most successful attempts at a planned community (see photos), one with many large and small open parks, greenways, closes and even, yes, gardens. The idea was to create an English hamlet, where Miss Marple might feel right at home.

WSTC
"The Gardens," as residents have always referred to it is in Queens, about 20 minutes from midtown Manhattan on the IND subway line at Continental Avenue. Frederick Law Olmstead, Jr. designed the community for the Russell Sage Foundation beginning in 1908 aand Grosvenor Atterbury, the famed architect designed several homes there.

The West Side Tennis Club emigrated to Forest Hills Gardens from Manhattan, and built a famed tennis stadium in 1923. I grew up across the street from the club’s entrance on Tennis Place and later, as a member, romped on its soft grass courts, which you might say became my garden.

There were probably many fine private gardens in Forest Hills, hidden behind hedges and walls, but I did not spend much time in them. After all, the whole place was a garden. Why try to improve on Frederick Law Olmstead even if he was Jr.!


 Ed Note: We will be writing more about Forest Hills Gardens in the future. Meanwhile, here is some official info and a short slide show made by the author.



* Another rphoto of this home recently appeared in The Times. It was Geraldine Ferraro's home on Deepdene Road in FHG. the author's uncle lived in it until the late Fifties and his family sometimess gathered there on holidays.
     .


Friday, March 11, 2011

Dis 'n Dat

I was never a huge McEnroe fan, due to his obnoxious behavior on the court, although I always appreciated his artistry with a racquet, his agility, and his competitiveness. I never thought that I would be quoting him, as I have done above; yet, his words seem to be the perfect antidote to so much we see and hear around us today.

The words also serve as a personal reminder. As much as I'd like to be serious and often fall asleep thinking serious novelist thoughts, day after day I wake up as a cartoon writer who cannot draw and has to borrow pictures.

Tomorrow, I will be on the island of Saint James* and will absolutely not be serious.

                                                                                 *

GEMINI: "...The Sun's voyage through the sign of Aries is a call to explore your options and expand your horizons. Once Mercury starts moving forward on the 23rd, you're going to know exactly what you need to do next to stop tormenting yourself about all the ifs and maybes." 


Sysa...Sisy...
Actually, I just wanted to be able to sleep all the way through a night without waking from a dream that I am a human abacus, a melting snowball, or that I'm Sisyphus being chased down the hill by the rock.

Since the mercury starts moving far upward for the air and the sea sometime tomorrow afternoon when I arrive on the island of Saint James, I will know exactly what to do: find Chico and order some lobsters for Monday.

                                                                           *

I love my American Heritage Dictionary, which has been by my side since 1979. Strangely, I have always had a faculty for being able to spell many, if not all difficult words and a complete inability to spell certain easy words, such as racquet, used above (much preferred to racket). My only problem with my beloved AHD, or any dictionary, is that, in order to look up a word like Sisyphus, you pretty much need to know how to spell it. 

I confess, it's becoming easier, simply to google  words like exercize and legnth, which stump me every time.

                                                                        *

Today's Correspondence:

From: Thomas McDermott [mailto:twmcdermott@gmail.com]
Sent: Friday, March 11, 2011 9:28 AM
To:DPW
Subject: [BULK] Refusal to Take Recycling

We recently corresponded about snowplow damage to our fence; now, we have a new problem. For three straight weeks the recycling truck has refused to take glass and plastic material from our curb. For the first two weeks, I noticed that our helpers had placed those materials in the blue or wrong basket (photo), but the recycle crew did take all of the paper. Today, the glass and plastic were in the proper basket, but my wife has just reported that they left it again with no explanation whatsoever. We have been leaving these kinds of materials in the same place for several years with little problem.

Why is this occurring? What are we suddenly doing incorrectly? How to we fix this problem?

If this is not under your jurisdiction in Public Works, please pass this message on to someone who can help us with this problem. We are unaware of any changes in city recycling procedures and simply think it's strange to suddenly have the crew leave these items without the courtesy of a note or any message about why. For nearly $XX,XXX annually in taxes, we find this unusual, especially since we are perfectly willing to abide by your new rules, if we know what they are.

Thank you.

Tom & The DG
1 Hidden Spring Lane

Good Morning Mr.. McDermott and DG,
The reason the recycling has not been collected for the past few weeks, is that the bin is broken.  If the recycler goes to pick it up, all the recycling will fall all over the ground an then we will have another problem. If you would like to replace the bin we sell them at public works for $7.00 all you would need to do is come and pick it up. 
Angie
City of Rye
914-967-7464

Dear A: 
Thank you for responding so quickly. Please mention to someone in City Hall that it would simply be common courtesy, not to mention good service, to put a little tag in the bin so people can replace them before the bottles and other material build up. Or, perhaps I just did not see it or respond when the crew member walked up to our door to let us know, in which case, sincere apologies.

Tom

While I was hitting send on this last ditty, two DPW gentlemen arrived at the door to explain the situation in person. They listened politely to my suggestion to actually let people know about broken bins, but told me people pay no attention to those kinds of things. They very nicely offered to return with a new bin and I have prepared a check for $7. He appeared, I paid, and I have a new bin.

Only after writing the check did I realize that these bins get broken by the crews themselves more often than not, but case closed.


Moral: pack an extra swimsuit, the water's fine and don't go all kerplonkety about silly stuff, as they say on Saint James. Or, as Chico tells me, "Tom, you here now, man, hear what I'm saying?"

And I will hear.


* you will not find this very small Bahamian island on your map, because I have changed the name to protect the innocent from having too many visitors, anyway, there is no golf, service is really, really slow, roosters may wake you before dawn and well known celebs might run you over on their way to harass Queen Conch, who just ignores them. She knows real royalty when she sees, since she sees through royal eyes.