I think I'm ready to endorse a candidate for NYC Mayor.

And to think, I was leaning toward Bloomberg...

(Well done, MB.)

Exercise in Futility

The Film Critics of the New York Times, those humble torch bearers enlightening our cinematic palette, recently released a book entitled The Best 1,000 Movies Ever Made.

Mind you, this books does not contain a ranking of the best 1,000 movies ever made. It merely contains a laundry list of the 1,000 best movies ever made. And, everyone has their own interpretation of what makes the movie the "best," such as great storytelling, performances, cinematography, etc...

To rationalize this daunting task, editor Peter M. Nichols writes in the preface:

The idea behind this book, of course, is to provide the film buff or anyone renting a video with as full an account of a movie as possible. But unedited reviews also leave no way to wriggle out of judgments made on deadline years ago. Are these really the one thousand best films? An impossible question, of course, but from the accumulated evidence, it's apparent that Times critics knew a great movie when they saw one.

Yep, 1,000 movies the NY Times Film Critics thought were "great." Think about the brainstorming session that went into this:

Editor's #1 & 2 sit in the kitchen of their swanky Upper West Side apartment, with a legal pad at their side and PowerMac at their disposal.

Editor #1: Well, we've got 947. That's not a very round number.
Editor #2: Is it a prime number?
Editor #1: Ooh. Maybe.
Editor #2: I'll start dividing it by numbers.
Editor #1: Now are there any movies named by prime numbers...?

Enter Subletter in Editor #1's apartment

Subletter in Editor #1's Apartment: Dude, you're out of bread. I can't make a reuben if I don't have any rye.
Editor #1: Reuben? What's a Reuben?
Subletter: The only completely invented sandwich? Hello? It's a freaking Reuben! A Reuben!
Editor #2: Did he just say Reuben, Reuben? That was part of a sextuple feature I watched in high school while foregoing my prom. It was pretty good. Put it on.
Editor #1: Reuben, Reuben! Great!
Subletter: Screw that. I can't make a Reuben without any bread.
Editor #1: Hmm... bread. Nope, don't know any movies about bread. Let me punch Bread into IMDB.com... Bread, Love and Dreams. Sounds light years ahead of its time. Yeah, that could work. No one will watch it anyway.
Editor #2: 949.. That's like a number anagram. We could stop now.
Subletter: Let me see that...

Subletter in Editor #1's apartment rips away the legal pad with the 949 movies listed. He flips through, page by page.

Subletter: Henry V? Which one?
Editor #1: What do you mean which one? The Shakespearean one, you fool!
Subletter: No, you moron. They remade it a few years back. There's at least two of them.
Editor #2: Great. We can use both.

Subletter throws the legal pad at editor #2

Subletter: Look, guys. Take a fucking break, go down the street get some rye bread and corned beef from the Butcher. Boy.

Editor #1: The Butcher Boy! I watched that on TV the other day before I left to watch that Bela Lugosi Iron Man Movie Marathon Last Thursday through Saturday! It was not bad.
Editor #2: Fantastic. That brings us to 952. That's an even number. Can't be a prime number.
Subletter: Pi is a prime number.
Editor #1: Ignoramus. You clearly have no idea what you're talking about.
Subletter: Much like the moron who ends his sentences with prepositions. Douche.

...end scene.

I have reservations about any list that can include RoboCop but forget SpaceBalls, Terminator, and the Oscar Award Winner for Best Picture in 1977 (Rocky) and 1998 (Titanic), among others.

The majority of movies in this book are among the "10 Best Films" chosen by critics at the end of each year.

Right.

It's a coffee table book, NY Times Editors. Made presumably because you feel infalliable about movies and had some time on your hands. Nothing more.

The Greatest Show on Earth

The World Series commences tonight, pitting the Houston Astros against the Chicago White Sox of Chicago.

Whenever Championships of this caliber come out, you always get silly amounts of coverage as to who will win, why you should watch despite the Yankees and Red Sox being absent in the Series, and other heartwarming but fairly irrelevant side stories.

I don't feel compelled to offer more on why you need to watch the Series tonight (precisely because it's two fairly talented teams who AREN'T the Yankees and Red Sox), who will win (White Sox in 5), or any pointless anecdotes from my childhood about these teams (I don't care for the White Sox, I don't like Roger Clemens).

I don't need to tell you that if you live in Houston, the mayor issued a sock-less weekend in honor of the World Series. Or that two senators, neither from Houston nor Chicago, propsed a resolution this week with the goal of exonerating Shoeless Joe Jackson from his part in throwing a World Series.

Or that Houston is the fattest and dirtiest city. Or that Chicago's 1933 World's Fair featured a midget village.

I write merely because there's a baseball game on TV tonight. And you should watch, because it's baseball, and baseball is good.

PS - Just for old times sake, let's revisit this gem in commemoration of the Yankees being eliminated from playoff contention a very long time ago.

The Pledge

I've lost my voice. Metaphorically speaking.

"Everything Right is Wrong Again" = at this point, officially estranged.

We had a good run. Hit the highs, sank to the lows.

Then I went and got a job in Jersey with no computer at my desk and no patience to write when I got home. You slaved over a hot stove. I ate out.

It's not over. I think we need to work on it. Maybe see a counselor. Talk more, definitely.

What's on my mind, you ask? I'm trying to move. I'm stuck in mediocrity. I haven't done much besides work and sleep lately. I need more. And blog, you will be my outlet. You will be my last bastion of hope.

Oh screw that shit. No need to make this redeclaration of our independence here in relative obscurity. I'm just going to work on writing more. On whatever. Whenever. Like Shakira. But without the hips. And I'm a guy.

We must protect this house.

You won't have Houston to kick around anymore.

Glory, glory Alleluia!

He had a few moments of glory, but not many.

Go NY! Go NY! Go!

It Was the Week that Was.

Boo.

I've come out of hiding. Where have I been?

Well, you'll never guess where I worked last week. Or who was the host. Or who never got on a plane to perform.

Now, I've been watching "Showtime at the Apollo" after Saturday Night Live for years, from Sinbad's first stint to Steve Harvey and so on. It never really garnered much interest besides the Amateur Night, the competition where average Joes vie for their 15 minutes of fame. Now, to see it behind the scenes, I realized there are rules to success:

First, don't rap. Ever. One performer actually got booed off the stage before laying down their first rhyme. They started over, and he still got booed.

Second, no stand up. You'll be booed off. One stand up actually cracked his opening bit, but then lost the crowd mere moments later. Score one for the little guy. Score is still eleventy billion to one, though.

Third, if you are a nervous performer, don't talk to the Apollo kids before hand. I saw two such instances where the kids, who were just a smidgeon too spoiled for their own good, would not understand that the amateurs were just that and wouldn't often make the amateurs feel that much worse. There's nothing sadder than watching a grown man or woman being belittled by a 12 year old girl in braces.

Finally, be aware that 90% of the audience is drawn in from the street that day. There's no preparation. There's no "right song." It's a crap shoot.

Oh, and, I got a new job. Go me.

I'll get back in the swing of things soon.