Recently in NYC Life Category

"'You get so hard living here," he said in a gravelly, mournful voice. 'But pets open up that heart center. There is something about the unconditional love; they clean the blues off of you. 'That's their mission. That's why a lot of New Yorkers have pets.'" The NYT reports in on the passing of Pretty Boy, stray cat and late prince of the East Village.

A very happy birthday to my sister Gill, who turned 30 over the weekend (and who recently garnered some raves in London during ABT's European swing.) While I won't be there to enjoy it this year, ABT's spring season at the Met is right around the corner.

"One observer from yesterday's workout noted the uneasy atmosphere among the other players. 'You could just feel the hate,' the person said." It's been rumored all summer, particularly since the Knicks acquired Bulls backup Chris Duhon. Now, according to the Daily News, the tortuous Marbury era in Madison Square Garden looks like it may be coming to an end this Friday. "Several persons with knowledge of the situation have indicated that the Knicks are planning to part ways with Marbury by the end of the week...The Knicks will likely place Marbury on waivers and, once he clears, begin negotiating a buyout. Marbury will then be free to sign with another team; the Miami Heat have a desperate need at point guard."

On one hand, getting nothing in return for a player like Marbury seems like a loss for the Knicks. Then again, with his massive contract, Stephon basically has little-to-no trade value -- See also Zach Randolph. And if he's as much of a locker room cancer at this point as this article suggests, we might as well just cut him and start the D'Antoni era fresh. So, so long, Stephon. And if you start actually playing to your long-heralded potential this coming season for Miami, I'm going to be very irate.

Update: "This thing is initiated in the press and then I have to ask questions about it,' Walsh said, sounding somewhat perturbed. 'I haven't approached [Marbury] about a buyout.'" New GM Donnie Walsh says it's not so.

New York, New York, the center of the world, the city that never sleeps. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. And if you can't...well, then, I guess you pack up a U-Haul and move on down the road. (Or is it "Then we take Berlin"?) At any rate, after a seven-year stint here in the Harlem-Morningside environs, Berk and I are leaving Manhattan on Wednesday for (hopefully) greener pastures. My next real destination is still undetermined, pending the vagaries of the job search, but for now I'll be returning to the nest to continue writing the dissertation and otherwise scrounge for remunerative employ. We'll see how it goes from there.

As for NYC, on one hand, I'm really going to miss this town. The sheer energy of Gotham always puts a spring in my step, and I really enjoy that distinct New York sensation of living in the center of the hive, ever-so-slightly in the future. On the other hand, I'd be lying if I didn't concede that this city tends to aggravate my natural Irish melancholy, particularly once you factor in the usual grad school isolation, the happenstance that many of my better friends left some time ago, and the sad fact that, romantically speaking, I got crushed here...twice. But, no hard feelings, New York. Sure, there are lingering ghosts in this city, and if I never live as alone again as I have the past two years, it'll be soon enough. But, I still love Manhattan, and I always will, and I would definitely look forward to doing another stint here at some point, if it turns out to be in the cards.

In any case, the future -- however hazy at the moment -- beckons. So, I'd expect it to be quiet here over the next few days as my brother and I lug my accumulated belongings down the Eastern Seaboard. Until then, hope everyone had a relaxing and appropriately reflective Memorial Day, and I'll be in touch on the other end. And, if you're an NYC reader and I didn't see ya before I left, I expect I'll be back for visits, more often than not. (I mean, this is New York.) Until then, be safe, y'all.

Has Donnie Walsh landed his first big fish? Word is NY has outbid Chicago, and the Phoenix Suns' Mike D'Antoni is our new Knicks coach. Um...gratz? Mike D'Antoni seems like a good coach and an amiable guy, but is an offensive-minded, fast-break specialist really what we need right now? It's really hard to envision Eddy Curry, Zack Randolph, and the gang running the floor for D'Antoni like the Suns did. And while we have many problems, and consistent offense surely ranks among them, defense is really where the Knickerbockers have stunk up the joint of late.

Well, it's an interesting pick, if nothing else. Let's see where it goes.

In more basketball news, it becomes official: To noone's surprise (and to the relief of a grateful city), the Isiah Thomas era is over for the New York Knicks. "'He will have no official title, but he will provide meaningful input,' Walsh said during a conference call. 'Isiah remaining a part of the franchise is important for the organization.'" Hmm. I could see a freefloating Isiah still doing considerable damage to the team, particularly if he screws up the lines of authority and/or undermines whomever our new coach turns out to be. But, I have to concede, he has been a pretty solid drafter (Camby, T-Mac, Damon Stoudamire, Lee, Balkman.) So, if Walsh wants to send him out to look at prospects, have at it...just keep him away from the bench and the locker room. Update: Walsh got the message. Apparently Isiah isn't allowed to talk to the players.

"When the venerable Donnie Walsh arrived on Wednesday as the Knicks’ fourth president in seven years, he supplanted the least-loved incumbent since LBJ. During the four years and change of the Isiah Thomas era, the team lost more than 60 percent of its games, a ratio that got worse after Thomas added the title of head coach in 2006. Over that span, the Knicks have amassed the largest payroll (peaking at more than $160 million with luxury tax) and the third-worst record in the National Basketball Association. Never has so much been spent for so little in the world of sports. They’ve been called the worst team in the history of pro basketball, but they’re really much worse than that. These Knicks are worse than the fire-sale ’41 Phillies or the expansion ’62 Mets or the ’76 Tampa Bay Buccaneers, who were perfect in their winlessness. They’re the worst of the worst because of how they’ve lost, in petulance and complacency -- and with management that bulldozed any critic it could not ignore."

But how do you really feel? New York Mag's Jeff Coplon comes not to praise the Isiah-era Knickerbockers but to bury them, once and for all. The piece, entitled "Absolutely, Positively the Worst Team in the History of Professional Sports," is both exhaustive and withering in detail, and well worth a read, if you're of the rubber-necking persuasion.

Also, in basketball news, it looks like I got a B+ this year in bracketology. Thanks mainly to picking Kansas to win it all (a lucky guess, basically), my bracket scored in the 89th percentile overall.

In more Indiana related news, it seems to be official: Word is the Knicks will announce Donnie Walsh as the new team president later today, meaning, at long last, the beginning of the end for the Isiah era. Given the depths of our current situation, I'm still not sold at all on the notion that Walsh can turn things around for the Knickerbockers by next season. But, since the most involving Knick-related activity around of late has been toying with David Lee's hair, I'd think pretty much anything he does would be a step in the right direction.

The light at the end of the tunnel? Rumor has it that longtime Pacers official Donnie Walsh is set to sign a three-year deal to become Knicks prez, meaning the dreadful Isiah Era is at long last ending here in New York. (Of course, we're still still stuck with terrible Knick owner Jim Dolan, but baby steps, I guess.) To be honest, I'm not a big fan of Walsh or the current state of the Pacers franchise (for which Larry Bird and the Artest melee also share part of the blame), but at this point it's safe to say Walsh will be greeted as a liberator around these parts. Update: Wrong answer, Dolan.

I'm not going to cover all the sordid details of the Spitzer case here -- he's gone, so, politically speaking, there's not much else to say about it (and -- for the moment anyway -- the search for a possible campaign funds connection sounds likes a fishing expedition.) Nevertheless, regarding the news coverage here in the Apple, it -- to no one's surprise, I guess -- has already pushed past prurient to wallow in the tacky. When the feeding frenzy first locked on to "Kristen's" MySpace page (5 million hits in a day), I actually felt sorta bad for the poor girl. (Ok, I know, she's not poor -- she makes $5500/hr. Still.) Prostitution is illegal, true, but she's still basically a troubled kid engaged in a seedy enterprise, and I think it'd be pretty hard for any personal site -- this one included -- to withstand that level of withering, snark-heavy scrutiny from the entire world at large. That being said, from front-page, come-hither portfolios all over NY today to 200 large made on music downloads overnight, I have a feeling the last thing Ms. Dupre needs right now is anyone's pity. Oh well. Milk it, I guess.

Just be clear, I'm not saying the coverage is anywhere near as repellent as the media aftermath to the Virginia Tech killings, and I know sex has sold newspapers since the dawn of the printing press. (I mean, the tabloids caught my attention this morning.) But, c'mon now. In any case, I'm guessing Silla Wall Spitzer is having a truly terrible day.

(By the way, if anyone cares about my own editorial decision to post a pic of Ashley Dupre here, I did so to be fair to Ms. Iseman, of McCain fame. The lesson here seems to be: If you must get caught in a sex scandal (or what the NYT thinks might be a sex scandal), try to keep the seamier-type pics off of the Internets.) Update: Client 9 radio? Um, yeah.

"I am deeply sorry that I did not live up to what was expected of me. To every New Yorker, and to all those who believed in what I tried to stand for, I sincerely apologize. Over the course of my public life, I have insisted — I believe correctly — that people regardless of their position or power take responsibility for their conduct. I can and will ask no less of myself. For this reason, I am resigning from the office of governor." Spitzergate comes to its inevitable close as the Governor resigned this morning, paving the way for Lt. Governor David Paterson to take office in Albany. (Yes that means Clinton -1.)

I know that some Dems have argued that Spitzer shouldn't resign, citing David Vitter in particular, and that something is fishy about the Dubya Justice Department's handling of this case. To be sure, I haven't been relishing the unsightly upsurge in schadenfreude among the GOP, Wall Street, and exactly the type of corporate ne'er-do-wells Spitzer spent a lifetime fighting.

But, let's get real here: Spitzer's actions weren't only brazenly and colossally dumb, they were patently illegal. Now, one can question the purported immorality of the world's oldest profession, and I would be among those who think it's a relatively victimless crime, situations like human trafficking excepted. But given that Spitzer is a guy who's personally put people in jail for prostitution and then condemned them in the press, this would seem to be a no-brainer. He had to go down for this, or he would have put himself above the law. So whether or not Spitzer had well-connected political enemies -- and, of course, he does -- is somewhat beside the point here. The real problem here is that Gov. Spitzer was so unfathomably stupid as to engage in illegal acts that he -- better than virtually anyone else alive -- knew would result in his downfall. And the tragedy is that, given what Spitzer might've accomplished in office otherwise, everyone now pays the price for his apparent inability to restrain his appetites.

How about a good, old-fashioned Democratic sex scandal? In a political shocker today, New York Governor, rising Dem star, and purported ethics champion Eliot Spitzer appears to have an affinity for prostitutes. More to come after Spitzer's press conference, but, really, what was he thinking? Spitzer was no Jimmy Walker -- He's cultivated his squeaky-clean public persona as a moral crusader since day one. That was his whole cachet. And given the enemies he's made, there was no way on God's green earth he was going to be able to keep that sort of thing quiet. It's sheer idiocy on his part. Update: "I am disappointed that I failed to live up to the standard I expected of myself." Spitzer makes a brief statement, and word comes out of a wiretap. Stick a fork in him, he's done.

Update 2: Within an hour of the story's leak, Gov. Spitzer gets unpersoned by Team Clinton, with all traces of his existence removed from Clinton's website. (He endorsed her back in May.) Which makes it as good a time as any to note that, if he resigns this evening as some expect, Sen. Clinton loses a superdelegate. His likely successor, Lt. Gov David Paterson, would be the Empire State's first (and America's third) black governor, as well as New York's first blind one. He is already a Clinton superdelegate (although, according to some reports, potentially a wavering one.) While on the subject, Obama picked up two more supers today regardless. Update 3: It doesn't seem Spitzer is resigning tonight.

"At the sprawling Riverside Park Community apartments at Broadway and 135th Street, Alician D. Barksdale said she had voted for Mr. Obama and her daughter had, too, by absentee ballot. 'Everyone around here voted for him,' she said." City election officials find "major discrepancies" between the reported and actual vote totals here in NYC. In 80 of the city's 6106 election districts -- including the nearby 94th election district right here in Harlem (I'm in the adjacent 93rd) -- Obama was reported to have the grand total of 0 votes. (Clinton now leads the 94th 261-136, which frankly still sounds off for this neighborhood.) "In an even more heavily black district in Brooklyn — where the vote on primary night was recorded as 118 to 0 for Mrs. Clinton — she now barely leads, 118 to 116."

Local party officials here in Sen. Clinton's home state are calling the mistakes a result of human error. "'I’m sure it’s a clerical error of some sort,' Mr. Wright said. 'Being around elections for the last 25 years, no candidate receives zero votes.'" (Hmm. Funny how these poll officials, instead of transposing a few numbers or somesuch, just accidentally wrote down a big fat zero.) In any case, the official count is what really matters in the end anyway, and -- if this trend keeps up -- there's a possibility Sen. Obama might pick up a few more delegates here in the city.

More to the point, in an age where we can squeeze in 5-10 ATMs a city block, and all of them seem to know exactly how much (or how little) money I have, why are we still relying on a half-century-old voting system that allows for these sorts of "human error"? It's the 21st century, people. Update: Although most reports seem to indicate the problem was legitimately human error, Hizzoner claims fraud.

For his next film after Vicky Crista Barcelona, Woody Allen returns to New York City with the perfect Allen analogue, Larry David (and Evan Rachel Wood). Which reminds me, I saw the eminently missable Cassandra's Dream two weekends ago and will post a review sometime soon, although "eminently missable" gets most of the point across.

Heya. Sorry this is going up so late...I spent the evening at the Generation Obama event in Midtown, so my usual prObama take on the debates got even more reinforcement than usual...

First off, it was heartening to watch a surprisingly substantive debate. The Nevada roundtable was too sweet, and the Myrtle Beach slugfest was too sour, but tonight's much-heralded showdown in Los Angeles actually seemed just right. [Transcript.] Both candidates were able to tease out and discuss notable differences in their policies, particularly on health care, immigration reform, and Iraq, while keeping a civil, friendly tone that didn't seem as unnaturally forced as back in Vegas.

With all that being said, and to no one's surprise, I thought Barack Obama came out ahead this evening. (In fact, I agree with Andrew Sullivan -- this might've been his best debate thus far.) He showed a clear and nuanced command of policy. He made a solid case for his strengths, most notably on the question of judgment ("Right on Day 1.") He explained well how he's more electable, particularly against John McCain. He was wry and personable. And -- when it came to the Republicans -- he was often devastating. (That Romney takedown was too rich.)

Hillary Clinton was also good tonight, but she gave more than a few answers that were real groaners. On immigration reform, her attempt to be Obamaesque by invoking the Statue of Liberty was strange and flat. More problematically, her answer on drivers' licenses for illegal immigrants made no sense (She's against licenses for illegals, to protect illegals?) And, worst of all, when given the chance to defuse a zero-sum understanding of the immigrant issue, she instead told a story about an African-American man who blamed Latinos for his job loss, and it was hard not to read an off-putting Bendixen subtext into it.

Most notably, when it came to Iraq in the final third, Clinton was terrible. Rather than just admit she made a mistake in either [a] supporting the war or [b] believing Dubya, she seemed unwilling to concede any possibility of error, and got stuck in an increasingly tortured answer about her position on the AUMF vote. It was unseemly, to say the least, even Dubyaesque. And the more she spun her wheels, the better Obama looked. Update: Apparently, she also butchered the truth about the Levin Amendment.

Still, my general impression is that CNN's Jeff Toobin basically got the larger chess game right: As a TPM commenter well put it: Hillary Clinton is currently in the lead and is trying to run the four corners until the clock runs out. Barack Obama is surging massively right now and didn't want to upset that o-mentum unduly. So neither candidate felt they needed to shake up the current paradigm all that much, which helped keep everything friendly.

Instead, Obama wanted to show undecideds that he has presidential gravitas and can policy-wonk as needed. Clinton wanted to staunch her negatives and get the focus back on her rather than Wild Bill. (Which reminds me, no question about Kazakhstan?) In that sense, both candidates accomplished what they came to do.

Now, it's up to us.

"It is difficult to remember the last national candidate who has charged and jazzed the democratic system as Mr. Obama has. Partly as a result of his candidacy, college campuses have remembered why they are proud of the United States, kids are going door to door, runners are handing out leaflets on weekends, racial lines have been culturally melted and the electoral approach to presidential campaigning has been reborn. And, as more than one commentator has said, America is being reintroduced to the world."

An endorsement closer to home: The New York Observer endorses Barack Obama for president. "[W]hen George W. Bush was driving a bleary, shocked nation into war with bait-and-switch deceptions in 2003, where was our experienced leadership? Meanwhile, in the west, an Illinois state senator -- who has since served three years in the Senate, the same Congressional period that a fellow Midwesterner, Abraham Lincoln, had served when he sought the presidency -- rose to exhibit courage and public judgment on that deceptive adventure, stating, 'I am not opposed to all wars. I’m opposed to dumb wars.'...His relationship to truth and plain speaking and public transparency is the first step toward reviving democracy in the United States of America. Barack Obama of Illinois is the future. New York’s Democrats should embrace him."

"Isiah's rhetoric has always been persuasive. He's been dealt a bad hand. He had to make extreme moves. Every trade he's made, the Knicks have come out ahead on talent. No one, he implies, could've done any more. But to get a handle on what Isiah's done as a GM, I've evaluated every major move he's made during his tenure, from trades to free-agent signings to draft picks to coaching hires. The record seems to be seriously at odds with Isiah's claims." In a two-part series, ESPN's Chad Ford surveys the colossal wreckage made of the New York Knickerbockers, and suggests the way to start digging out.

While poorly executed, surprisingly unengaging, and mostly banal, Matt Reeves' Cloverfield, the much-hyped version of Godzilla-meets-The Blair Witch Project produced by Lost/Alias guru J.J. Abrams, does pose at its heart one truly frightening scenario: What would you do if the moment the next 9/11-level catastrophic event happens here in New York City, you just happen to be stuck at a party downtown with a bunch of godawful douchebags? Seriously, though, I'm not sure how you screw up a ground-eye-view of "Huge Monster Destroying New York" so badly, but Cloverfield is as big a January dog as they come. Not above milking blatant 9/11 imagery for gravitas (which doesn't offend me per se, although I do wish it was in the service of a better story), Cloverfield basically tries to be little more than a monster movie thrill ride for the Youtube generation. (The film is bookended by a trip to Coney Island, and, yeah, I'd say that's about right.) But given that the none of the main characters are all that likable, and given that the film falters on the promise of showing NYC in full disaster mode, I can't say it's a ride worth paying for, Sadly, one or two brief moments notwithstanding, last year's eerie teaser is about as good as it gets.

The setup's all in that teaser, of course, but that doesn't stop Cloverfield, an 85-minute movie, from starting off wicked slow. After a few moments with two young lovers in a Deluxe Apartment in the Sky (Time Warner Center, to be exact), the film begins with a surprise going-away party downtown for Rob (Michael Stahl-David), a young financial type heading for Japan. (Not to obsess over real estate, but this apartment too is as impressive as the monster.) We then spend about 20 minutes wandering around said party, meeting all the young beautiful people who may or may not become Cthulhu food. (Rob, it seems, has many friends, but none of them are plain-looking.) So, let's see, there's Rob's brother Jason (Mike Vogel), his best friend (and our cameraman) Hud (T.J. Miller), Jason's girlfriend Lily (Jessica Lucas), Hud's current crush Marlena (Lizzy Caplan)...but conspicuously absent amid them all (at first) is the fetching young lass we saw in the opening moments with Rob, Beth (Odette Yustman). She shows up late, with -- ZOMG SC4ND4L! -- another man in tow (I think his name was Travis, but it doesn't matter -- he's a plot point that's forgotten anyway), and, soon thereafter, leaves in a huff. (By now you may be thinking, uh, where's the monster in all of this 90210 dreck? Yes, my thoughts exactly.) Anyway, so after enough time has elapsed that Beth could've gotten back home, there's a shaking and a rumbling and...finally...well, you know what happens next.

Now, I could've forgiven Cloverfield its interminably long set-up if we then got a New York City disaster movie for the ages. But, after letting some obvious 9/11-ish images and moments -- the collapsing buildings, clouds of billowing smoke, panicked cell phone calls -- do the heavy lifting, the film mostly just stalls out. As far as the story goes, Rob decides he must go save Beth from the TWC, and, for reasons that don't make much sense, everyone else just decides to tag along. Ok, that's fine -- you gotta get the protagonists moving around New York for one reason or another. Except, once the monster attacks, the city is almost completely empty, aside from U.S. infantrymen (who, as my friend pointed out, somehow got there before the Air Force.) I mean, it's Manhattan. You'd think there'd be people wandering around everywhere in various states of terror and confusion, but, nope, all two million people either hunkered down or got out right away. In fact, other than the Statue of Liberty and the 9/11 nods, there's not much point for the film to have taken place in New York at all. I mean, sure, there's a sequence in the subway tunnels in which our heroes magically leap from Spring St. to 59th St. (and one which will seem rather derivative if you saw 28 Weeks Later or The Descent.) But, otherwise, this could have taken place pretty much anywhere.

If this review all sounds a bit nit-picky, well, perhaps. But, when the film never really engages at an emotional or visceral level, you gotta do something to pass the time. (The midnight crowd at my local Magic Johnson sat there more dutiful than dumbstruck.) Except for the occasional rare moment, as when the gang get caught in a full-out alley melee between the creature and the US Army, or witness a horse pulling an empty cart around Central Park, Cloverfield never establishes a groove. And everytime you think it might start to get interesting, it falls back into Archie and Veronica grandstanding. Throw in a few wildly implausible escapes and people rallying from seriously painful injuries, and there's not much here to recommend. To be honest, I'd wait for the video. And, if no one ever finds said video under all the debris in Central Park, well, trust me, you didn't miss much.

In Francis Lawrence's I am Legend, Will Smith wanders the streets of New York City, his only companion his trusty, loyal, and free-spirited canine sidekick. To stave off the despair and dementia that lurks behind interminable loneliness, he dotes on his dog and immerses himself in routine: He watches as many movies as possible, indulges in his music collection, broadcasts his continued existence into the ether, and throws himself into his work, a solitary investigation marked by repetition and feelings of futility, one whose fruits he knows will more than likely go unused and unread. To all of this, I say: Who the hell wants to sit through a movie about the last year and change of grad school? And couldn't they find a sheltie to play l'il Berk? (As for yours truly, I'd have gone Philip Seymour Hoffman or Paul Bettany -- maybe Michael Cera for the flashbacks -- but, hey, Will Smith works too.)

Seriously, though, when I first heard word they were doing another take on Richard Matheson's eerie 1954 novella, and that word was penned by hackmeister Akiva Goldsman and read "We're blowing up the Brooklyn Bridge!", I figured this would be a big budget stinker, along the lines of Alex Proyas' version of I, Robot. And yet, while a action blockbuster has been grafted onto the basic story (and it's moved from suburban California to the heart of Metropolis), Francis Lawrence's I am Legend is surprisingly true to the grim feel of the novella. In short, Legend is a much quieter and more melancholy film than I ever expected. And, while it definitely has some problems, it's probably my favorite big budget blockbuster of the year, with the possible exception of The Bourne Ultimatum. True, Lawrence's take on Constantine in 2005 turned out better than I figured as well. Still, I'm actually quite surprised by how moody and haunting this film turned out to be. (And, give credit where it's due. Like Paul Haggis and In the Valley of Elah, I'm forced to concede that Goldsman might not always be the kiss of death.)

I am Legend begins innocuously enough with a sports report -- It looks like the Yankees and Cubs in the World Series, although LA has an outside shot at a pennant too. But, in the near future, it ain't just the ball players injecting experimental serums anymore. As a doctor (Emma Thompson) on the news informs us, scientists have altered the measles to work as the ultimate body-cleansing virus, in effect working as a cure for cancer. (A Cure for Cancer! This follows the baseball scores?) Cut to New York City, three years later. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, nothing beside remains...except one man (Will Smith) and his dog (Abbey), chasing down a herd of deer through the empty steel corridors of a desiccated Manhattan. (Sorta like Llewellyn Moss in No Country for Old Men, except now that country is everywhere, and the deermeat is worth more than the bag of money.) Clearly, something has gone Horribly Wrong. As we come to discover, that heralded cure backfired in dismal fashion, killing 90% of the Earth's population immediately and turning the rest, a la the rage virus in 28 Days and 28 Weeks Later, into violent, depraved monsters with a taste for blood and a susceptibility to sunlight. This Last Man on Earth is one Robert Neville, an army scientist (blessedly immune to the disease) who spends his days in a Jamesian manse on Washington Square, working on a cure to beat back the infection, and his nights just trying to stay alive. (Put simply, "scientific atrocity, he's the survivor.") But, even with Samantha, his German shepherd, by his side, the loneliness and omnipresent danger are taking their toll. And as he succumbs deeper into hopelessness -- and the creatures show signs of learning -- his coping strategies begin to shift. Forget the cure...Maybe it's time just to chase these Crazy Baldheads out of town...

Now, as I said, I am Legend does have it share of problems. The movie becomes more of a conventional actioner as it moves along, and the last act in particular feels weaker than the rest of the film. Looking exactly like the cave-dwellers in Neil Marshall's The Descent, the CGI creatures have an ill-favored and badly-rendered look, and the more you see of them the less scary they become. Also, in complete counterpoint to what Dr. Neville tells us about the infecteds' "social deevolution," they eventually seem to get behind a Lurtz/Solomon Grundy of sorts. But his presence or authority is never really explained -- he's just a tacked-on Big Bad. I had trouble believing that somebody could've heard of Damien Marley but not his father Bob. (And, since you're seemingly geared to the teeth, Dr. Neville, may I make some suggestions? 1) Infrared scope. 2) Night-Vision goggles.)

All that being said, for most of I am Legend's run it's a surprisingly rich and nuanced film. Will Smith is invariably an appealing presence, but he doesn't rely on his easy charisma or "Aw, hell no!" bluster much here. His performance is tinged with melancholy, and he does some great work in some really awful moments. Also, I feared going in that the canine companion bit would come across as a gimmick, just a cute creature for Smith to bounce off expository monologues. But Sam isn't just Wilson the Volleyball -- she's a living, breathing character of her own. (Nor is she Lassie -- she doesn't seem preternaturally smart, and occasionally does dumb dog things, which seemed all too realistic.) And then there's New York after the Fall, which in itself is a sort of character in the film. In shot after shot (somewhat akin to, but less showy than, the opening Times Square sequence of Vanilla Sky), Lawrence captures the eeriness of this great city laid low. Other than the aforementioned Brooklyn Bridge, "Ground Zero," as Neville now calls it, hasn't been destroyed or ravaged. It's just empty, an overgrown, city-sized echo chamber for his pangs of isolation. (And as the Marley song goes, "It hurts to be alone.") But, hey, even in a desolate New York City, with vampires lurking in the dark places, there are still plenty of fun ways to pass the time, and particularly if you have a good dog by your side.

"'Embarrassing,' Zach Randolph said...'I don't know what else to say.'" Sadly, the Knickerbocker meltdown continues. In an nationally-televised game on TNT, the Knicks get blown out in Boston, 104-59, "their third-worst loss and their second-worst scoring performance of the shot-clock era." (The only reason it wasn't the worst-ever was because Nate Robinson hit a 37-foot three-pointer at the final buzzer.) "In an incredible display of surrender, with 8:09 left and the Celtics mounting a 50-point lead on Eddie House's jumper, a Knicks fan sitting behind the basket ripped off his blue Knicks jersey, threw it onto the court in a rage and marched up the stairs and out of the building as Celtics fans applauded." I saw that guy (yes, I was watching this fiasco rather than the Cowboys-Packers game), and knew exactly how he felt. Really, how much worse does it need to get? Look at the picture above -- It's only the second quarter, and nobody's listening to Isiah. Fire him already.

In more intriguing New York area news, Obama and Bloomberg do breakfast in midtown. "[Bloomberg spokesman Stu] Loeser said among the topics discussed were global warming, homeland security, education, and the economy. He added that Bloomberg wasn't there for any other agenda such as joining forces as Obama's wingman against Clinton." (And, keep in mind, the mayor dined with Chuck Hagel this past week as well.) Still, Bloomberg does appear to be an Obama fan. When he tested the waters for his own bid this past summer, it was suggested Hizzoner wouldn't run against the Senator from Illinois.

"'Isiah has to start me,' Marbury fumed, according to the source. 'I've got so much (stuff) on Isiah and he knows it. He thinks he can (get) me. But I'll (get) him first. You have no idea what I know.'" (Some choice suggestions on what Starbury knows in the comment thread here: I like "It was Isiah's call to cancel Arrested Development" and "Isiah does not care about black people.") Yep, the once-promising 2007-2008 Knickerbockers imploded early this year, with our overpaid, underachieving, untradeable "star" point guard Stephon Marbury leaving the team in a huff over coming off the bench -- at the start of a tough four game road trip -- and now threatening to expose Isiah Thomas's dirty laundry (as if we didn't get enough of that with this past summer's sexual harrassment case.) How will the saga of the Traveling Marbury pan out? Will Stephon be handled with care or sent to the end of the line? Either way, I expect the Knicks to stay moribund so long as this PG, this GM, and this owner are running the show at the Garden. (NY Daily News and Deadspin links sent to me via Ben of The Oak, who also birddogged a great find last week with these graphical representations of hip-hop.) Update: The prodigal Knick returns to a loss in LA, but something's still rotten at MSG.

"Today, due to the dearth of competitive city council elections and lack of a mayor's race, it is likely that few New Yorkers will go to the polls. A good number of residents, tied up in the hectic pace of their daily lives, will probably not even realize today is an election day." But, Election Day it is. As such, the New York Sun's Seth Gitell laments the lack of interest in voting, and asks blogs to help publicize the day. (Y'know, making today a national holiday might help too.) And, while it may not be the Big Show this year, there are some important races happening around the country right now: "Kentucky and Mississippi both have gubernatorial battles. There are state legislative contests in Mississippi, New Jersey and Virginia. And a host of cities across the nation -- including Baltimore, Maryland; Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; and San Francisco, California -- will see mayoral elections." (Today's local NYC races are covered here.) Update: Dems gain Kentucky and the Virginia Senate.

"The Accused is a role that demands the ability to transmute technique into the expression of the passionate intensity, psychological pain and pure hatred that drive the character to her gruesome deeds. And in 2007 it also demands a strength of interpretation that can transcend the stylized Americana that makes this work feel museum-piece valuable and dated at the same time. Ms. Murphy managed just that in an impressive role debut on Friday night."

My sister Gillian draws a rave in the NYT for her Fall River Legend on Friday, as excerpted below: "Her auburn hair drawn tightly away from her face into a gleaming skullcap, her pale face tight and impassive above her high-necked dress, she embodied (to borrow the title of a famous piece of feminist literature) the madwoman in the attic -- the Victorian antiheroine who incarnates the rage and anxiety forbidden by a sexually repressive, socially coercive society. There is plenty of dancing for the Accused in 'Fall River Legend,' but it is testament to Ms. Murphy’s acting that the movements became a seamless part of a succession of memorable emotional moments: her little shudder as the details of the violent acts are read out at the beginning; her suppressed amusement and momentary triumph at her father and stepmother’s fear when she first picks up the ax to chop wood; her disbelieving, scarcely allowable pleasure when the young pastor (Sascha Radetsky, also strong in a role debut) offers her love and compassion. By the time Ms. Murphy, alone onstage at the end, threw back her body and opened her arms in a final, anguished embrace of death and her fate, she had made her character simultaneously tragic and real." I was at City Center for both the Friday and Saturday evening shows over the weekend, and while Balanchine's "Ballo Della Regina" honestly didn't make much of an impression on me, I found "Fall River Legend" quite spooky and memorable. Suffice to say, all sharp objects and implements will be well-hidden next time Gill comes over.

The confusion in her eyes says it all: Gill suits up as Lizzie Borden in this promo pic for Fall River Legend, part of ABT's upcoming fall run at City Center, Oct. 23-Nov 4. Borden "was a New England spinster who was the central figure in the axe murders of her father and stepmother on August 4, 1892 in Fall River, Massachusetts." (As you can see, the "Axe Effect" had a different meaning back then.) "The slayings, trial, and the following trial by media became a cause célèbre, and the fame of the incident has endured in American pop culture and criminology." (Indeed, Borden even has her own blog over at the Lizzie Borden Virtual Museum.) Tickets for ABT's fall season are on sale now.

"'What I did here, I did for every working woman in America,' said Browne Sanders, who came out of the courtroom beaming. 'And that includes everyone who gets up and goes to work in the morning.." The NBA's nightmare off-season continues with (just as during the regular season) a loss for the Knicks: A jury finds MSG, owner James Dolan, and Knicks coach Isiah Thomas guilty of sexual harassment and liable for $11.6 million in damages. The occasional Post headline screaming at me from the local deli notwithstanding, I haven't been following all the twists and turns of this ugly case, other than that I heard Stephon Marbury somehow got caught up in it too for having consensual sex with a Garden employee. Regardless, this is a total embarrassment for the NBA and for New York basketball, and one hopes Commissioner Stern will crack down hard on Dolan & co. if MSG doesn't clean house, and soon.

"I think were seeing the life of hip-hop coming back with songs like 'Aunt Jackie.' It's the kids acting like kids used to act when I was growing up, and I love it because, to me, hip-hop has been too cool for school lately." While I'm linking to music on YouTube, I meant to post this while in Seattle and forgot: Slate's Jody Rosen examines the Aunt Jackie phenomenon. Who's Aunt Jackie? She's "new rap music with an old-school flow," i.e. a goofy, ridiculously infectious throwback jam that's been blowing up on the Tube over the past six months. No gangstas, no bling -- just old-school beats, rhymes, and b-boyin' invoking the early days of NYC hip-hop. (NSFW, due to language and the fact that you'll likely try to imitate the Aunt Jackie after awhile.)

As expected, Greg Oden and Kevin Durant went 1 and 2 respectively at last night's 2007 NBA Draft. Bigger news on the local scene, however, was the Knicks acquiring Portland's talented, troubled PF Zach Randolph in exchange for sophomore SF Channing Frye (a good player, but he slumped considerably last year) and veteran "superstar" PG Steve Francis (a wildly overpaid underachiever with an awful, bloated contract -- I can't believe Portland took him, frankly.) All in all, I'm pretty happy with this trade. Randolph's clearly a bit of a loon, and a cluttered Randolph-Curry frontcourt makes about as much sense as the Marbury-Francis backcourt -- it's a fantasy team line-up with no sense for team chemistry. How are Marbury, Crawford, or Robinson going to drive into the paint with both Curry and Randolph drawing double-teams in the low post, and no real shooters to spread the floor? Still, losing Francis was addition by subtraction, and, while's Randolph's contract is also pretty hefty ($61 million over 4 years) at the very least, Randolph is still young. (The move was definitely better than the Celtics' obvious panic-trade for Ray Allen. I love Jesus Shuttlesworth, but shooting guards over 30 -- particularly those who just had two ankle surgeries -- age in dog years, and he, like Pierce, has a tendency to disappear sometimes.)

"Giuliani's Escape from New York was already tough enough, but Mayor Mike makes it nearly impossible. Bloomberg is the Ghost of Rudy Past -- a constant, high-profile reminder of the cultural distance from the South Carolina lowlands to the New York island." Slate's Bruce Reed examines how Mike Bloomberg's recent flirtations with a presidential bid spell serious trouble for the Giuliani candidacy (as does -- according to Fred Kaplan -- Rudy's "greedy" behavior with the Iraq Study Group.)

"Although my plans for the future haven't changed, I believe this brings my affiliation into alignment with how I have led and will continue to lead our City." In keeping with recent speculation that he plans to Bull Moose in 2008, NYC Mayor Michael Bloomberg quits the GOP. Well, ok then. The third party stuff aside, pretty much anybody deciding that today's Republican party isn't for them is good news in my book.

Spurred by Kobe Bryant's recent on-again, off-again trade demands (predicted by Ray Allen several years early), Knicks GM and coach Isaiah Thomas starts dreaming of a major shake-up in the Knickerbocker lineup. Oof, I really hope Bryant doesn't end up in New York (not that it's very likely anyway.) Despite his immense talent, he is easily my least favorite player in the league, and I'd have a hard time rooting for my Knicks with him jacking up shots all the time for the orange-and-blue.

"Hemmed in by term limits that will force him to leave office after the 2009 municipal election, Bloomberg seems to be searching for new worlds to conquer. With Eliot Spitzer just inaugurated as New York's first Democratic governor in 12 years, there is only one elective job soon to be vacant for a politician with Bloomberg's bent for executive leadership -- and its home office is on Pennsylvania Avenue." In Salon, Walter Shapiro wonders if Mayor Mike Bloomberg is considering an independent run in 2008. Well, I'd prefer Hizzoner to everyone in the Republican field, but don't really imagine myself leaving the Dem fold to vote for him.

Joel Lobenthal of the NY Sun: "As Gamzatti, Gillian Murphy imprinted infallibly etched images of pride, love, and ruthless will. She has studied the role so thoroughly and respectfully that even when she brings her own time and culture to Gamzatti's rarified reactions and body language, they don't coarsen her performance, but rather add to its vitality. Ms. Murphy has refined her natural facility for turning, so that her multiple fouettes in the Pas d'Action coda were smooth as silk, and her pirouettes in her last act solo, followed by an echoing spiral into the upper body, were mesmerizing." Or, says Jennifer Dunning of the NYT: "Once again Ms. Murphy made Gamzatti as pitiable a creature as she is evil, but this is a ballerina who needs a substantial work created for her." Yes, it's ABT's summer season time at the Met, and once again Gill is rocking the house. I've caught her in Othello and The Dream (that's her as Titania at right) thus far, and both times she was grand. If you're in the NYC area and looking for an evening out, check the listings -- you won't be disappointed.

Hey all...I'm now back in New York City, tan, rested, and ready for whatever 2007 may bring. (I hope.)

Admirably ambitious and running the emotional gamut from syrupy to sublime, Darren Aronofsky's The Fountain is a resolutely uncommercial big-think sci-fi piece that I expect will strongly divide audiences. (My guess is, you'll either love the film or turn on it in the first half-hour.) I found it a bit broad at times, particularly in the early going, and I definitely had to make a conscious decision to run with it. That being said, I thought The Fountain ultimately pays considerable dividends as a stylish, imaginative, and melancholy celebration of the inexorable cycle of life, from birth to death ad infinitum. In its reach, The Fountain at times suggests 2001, and even if that reach probably exceeds its grasp by the end, it should still be applauded for so fearlessly tackling such heady themes, box office be damned. And if nothing else, The Fountain will not only make you contemplate the meaning of it all, but contains several haunting images, like scraps of a fever dream, that will resonate long after the movie's over. All in all, not bad for ten bucks.

Like Requiem for a Dream and especially Pi, The Fountain is more about mood than plot, per se. Nevertheless, we begin in the sixteenth century, with a scruffy conquistador (Hugh Jackman, having a banner year) paying respects to what appears to be his beloved (Rachel Weisz) before embarking on a suicide mission against a Mayan temple. Before we're fully acclimated to what's going on, we've leapt to the twenty-sixth century (No, no Twiki), where that conquistador is now a bald, tattooed, Tai Chi practicing monk, traveling across the cosmos with an ailing tree and suffering visions from an age long hence. After a few bewildering minutes here, we find ourselves in our present, where neuroscientist Tom Creo (Jackman) is struggling against time to develop a cure for his wife Izzy (Weisz), before she succumbs to a brain tumor. As The Fountain progresses and we switch back and forth through these three timelines, a picture slowly coalesces of a man-out-of-time (no, not him either), determined beyond all bounds of hope or reason to defeat death and defend his one, true love from its thrall.

In all honesty, The Fountain suffers from some clunky moments in the early going, particularly when Weisz is forced to deliver exposition regarding Mayan beliefs about the Tree of Life, Xibalba (the Mayan underworld), and the Orion Nebula. And some, such as former Slate writer David Edelstein, couldn't seem to get past the Clint Mansell score, which -- as in Pi and Requiem -- is hypnotic-bordering-on-intrusive. But, once you get past the somewhat unwieldy set-up, I found the movie's themes considerably more sophisticated and less banal than most reviewers are giving it credit for. The romance here is pushed front-and-center, sure, but I found The Fountain moving less as a simple love-conquers-all tale than as an eloquent Zen meditation on mortality. (As one character puts it in the film, "Death is the road to awe.") If matter is neither created nor destroyed, then, in a way, we are all immortal -- the elements that make us up were around since the Big Bang and will continue to be around, reconstituted in other forms, long after we're dead ("in the stars above, in the tall grass, and the ones we love," to paraphrase a poet when he contemplated a similar plight to Jackman's.) Indeed, in this fashion, each of us -- made up of a combination of matter that, however briefly, has achieved sentience -- is the universe trying to express itself. That is no small thing.

Moreover, in The Fountain (and akin to Jacob's Ladder), Jackman's character ultimately isn't fighting to save his love as much as fighting his fear and despair over loss, not only of Weisz but of himself, his own ego: in short, his fear of death. As Weisz's character says several times over, "I'm not afraid anymore....Finish it." Jackman's Creo is afraid, so he won't or can't. "Without accepting the fact that everything changes, we cannot find perfect composure," writes Shunryu Suzuki in Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. "But unfortunately, although it is true, it is difficult for us to accept it. Because we cannot accept the truth of transiency, we suffer." To my mind, this suffering, and the overcoming of it, lies at the heart of Aronofsky's The Fountain. I thought the richness of both its vision and its ideas helps it elide over a lot of the pacing and exposition problems in the early going. So, in sum, go see The Fountain: I'm not sure you'll like it -- it's very possible you'll love it -- but I'm willing to bet, either way, that it'll stick with you.

[One addendum/caveat/boast: As it happens, I saw The Fountain Monday night at a very private screening/cocktail affair. (How'd I get in? Long story...basically, Aronofsky and I have a mutual friend.) I've admitted earlier to being an inveterate celebrity hound, and in terms of celeb-spotting this was manna from Heaven. Of maybe 40-50 attendees, 10-15 were instantly recognizable folk: Not only Aronofsky, Jackman, Weisz, and Ellen Burstyn (also in the film), but a gaggle of other high-profile celebs: Bowie(!), Lou Reed, Mike Myers, Iman, Helena Christiansen, Ben Chaplin, Elizabeth Berkeley, etc. So, I'm almost positive I'd have liked and recommended The Fountain regardless, but I'm forced to admit (re: would like to brag) that I saw it under more-than-ideal circumstances. (Yes, I played it cool despite being famestruck, but I'd be lying if every so often in the first half-hour of the film I found myself thinking "Am I really sharing an armrest with Famke Janssen right now? How bizarre." Not very Zen of me, I know, but sometimes I'm just a material guy.)]

So, my sister, her boyfriend, and I went to check out The Times They Are A-Changin', the new Twyla Tharp-choreographed reimagining of famous Bob Dylan songs, last Thursday (with, as a star-gazing aside, some heavy-hitters in attendance: Annie Leibowitz sat directly in front of me, and Tharp herself sat directly behind. Yes, I'm a celebrity hound.) And the verdict? Well, first let me say, that -- some early dabbling in community-theater notwithstanding -- I'm really not much of a musical guy. I tend to find the American Idol-ish histrionics of Broadway singing really distracting, and particularly when the song in question is something like "Masters of War." Nor have I seen Moving Out, Mamma Mia!, Ring of Fire, Almost Heaven or any of the other "Broadway Karaoke" shows that currently seem to be the rage, so I can't really compare it to any of the others -- I was really more interested to see some intriguing interpretations of Dylan than I was to partake in a group sing-a-long (which, thankfully, Times is not.) With all that said, I found Times to be...kinda hit-or-miss. While some of the visions here do their source material justice in memorable fashion, others fall flat or just seem ill-conceived. And, while the circus acrobatics on display are amazingly well-performed and at times mesmerizing, too many numbers slip into the same dark carnival-of-the-absurd pattern. The cast works hard, but surely, when you get down to it, there is more to Dylan's oeuvre than just aggro carny folk.

To its credit, Times samples songs from across Dylan's career, from the hoary ("The Times They-Are A Changin'," "Blowing in the Wind") to the obscure ("Man Gave Names to All the Animals," "Please, Mrs. Henry"), through the lean years ("I Believe in You," "Dignity") and up to the recent critical revival ("Not Dark Yet," "Summer Days.") Set in a traveling circus run by the vicious, heavy-handed Captain Ahrab (Thom Sesma) -- a character from one of Dylan's great American fables,"Bob Dylan's 115th Dream," not included -- the play basically centers around a love triangle among Ahrab, his son Coyote (Michael Arden), and the lady Cleo (Lisa Brescia), one of the circus performers. Through their story -- and the larger tale of a power struggle over the circus -- are refracted these thirty or so Dylan tunes, strung togther in haphazard but decently compelling fashion.

I'd like to say there's a formula for when a song works and when it doesn't, but it doesn't go over like that. One of the two best numbers, "Simple Twist of Fate" (the only cut from Blood on the Tracks here), is played basically straight. Alone in spotlight, Ahrab sings wistfully in the foreground (as seen at left) while the younger couple cavorts behind him, a haunting memory. "He woke up, the room was bare. He didn't see her anywhere. He told himself he didn't care, pushed the window open wide. Felt an emptiness inside, to which he just could not relate." The bleak, melancholic staging matches the song perfectly, and Ahrab/Sesma channels both its poetry and its pain.

But, in the other most successful number, "Mr. Tambourine Man" (a song I can usually take or leave), Tharp & co. have taken a tune that's ostensibly about a drug deal and just ran with it. Now, it's a gripping, Bergmanesque dance of death, with one of the sadder clowns (Charlie Neshyba-Hodges) holding center stage as the ensemble circles around him in black, recalling the doomed pilgrims of The Seventh Seal. Obviously, Tharp isn't the first to read "Tambourine Man" as a disquisition on mortality. ("I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade...into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it.") Nevertheless, the staging both feels innovative and cuts close to the bone of the song in surprising fashion.

There are other good moments scattered throughout the show, although few that hold their power over the course of an entire track: For example, a contortionist writhes horribly on a hospital bed during the "Dr. Filth" passage of "Desolation Row," flashlights whirl and twirl (held by people brandishing them vaguely like tusken raiders) during "Knocking on Heaven's Door", the cast memorably get their drink on for "Please, Mrs. Henry," and one clown reenacts Dylan's "Subterranean" signage during the latter half of "Like a Rolling Stone."

But, when a song's off, it's pretty off. The most obvious offenders are "The Times They Are A-Changin'," "Blowing in the Wind," and arguably "Lay, Lady, Lay," all of which are performed in a deadly earnest Broadway patter that just stop the show dead. (This is particularly unfortunate in the case of the first one, since that's how the show begins.) But, there are other problems. The bizarre welcome-to-the-carnival-of-beasties routine works well for "Desolation Row" (since, after all, "The circus is in town") and maybe even for other rousing numbers such as "Like a Rolling Stone." But, it's overdone -- in "Highway 61 Revisited," "Everything is Broken," "Gotta Serve Somebody," "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" -- to the point that the musical numbers become indistinguishable. ("Masters of War" also falls somewhat into this pattern -- I liked it better than most, but was reminded more of ABT's splendid recent revival of "The Green Table," which captured the same sentiment better.)

And, sometimes, in my humble opinion, the attempted interpretation falls flat on its face. I thought turning "Not Dark Yet," Dylan's gloomy but resigned rumination on death around the corner, into a rage-against-the-dying-of-the-light completely misses the point of the song, which is that he's given up and given in to the coming darkness. ("I've been down on the bottom of a world full of lies. I ain't looking for nothing in anyone's eyes.")

Most egregious in this regard is what's been done to "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright." Perhaps because it remains such a personal song -- a song about two people rather than a generation -- I'd say it's aged much better than almost all of the other hugely popular early-Dylan standards ("Blowing in the Wind," "The Times They Are A-Changin'," "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall.") In fact, I might go so far as to say that "Don't Think Twice" may just be the quintessential Dylan break-up song in a career full of them (although now that I write that...Blonde on Blonde, Blood on the Tracks...ok, never mind. That's too bold a statement.) At any rate, here, all the complexity of competing emotions that drives the track -- "I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind, you could have done better but I don't mind, you just kinda wasted my precious time" -- is wasted, as it's become, inexplicably, a number sung by a woman to her overly eager dog. (Although I will concede that the canine in question -- I believe it was Jason McDole -- was convincingly and creepily Berkeley-like.)

In sum, A Times They Are A-Changin' is at times engaging, and may be worth catching if you have a hankering for the carnivalesque, if you're a Dylan completist, or if you have a higher tolerance for showtune renditions than I do. But, as an exploration of Dylanalia, I found the show too narrowly circumscribed within its three-ring circus, and ultimately unsatisfying. (Then again, in the play's defense, I didn't think much of Masked and Anonymous either, so perhaps I'm just ornery about such things.)

As longtime readers might know (or might've adduced from some of the site banners above), I've always been a big Terry Gilliam fan, and will pony up for films considerably worse than The Brothers Grimm to repay the man for making Time Bandits, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and one my all-time favorite movies, Brazil. (In fact, "Ghost in the Machine" is the name of this site partly for the Brazil reference.) So it was a real treat yesterday when I and a friend from high school got to see Terry Gilliam live in the flesh last night at the IFC Center on 4th St. After making the rounds in front of The Daily Show yesterday afternoon, Gilliam showed up as part of IFC's Movie Night series, in which a director of some repute screens one of his favorite films. (In fact, he showed up with the sign he'd been lugging around outside all day: "STUDIOLESS DIRECTOR -- FAMILY TO SUPPORT -- WILL DIRECT FOR FOOD") Apparently, Gilliam had wanted to show One-Eyed Jacks, the 1961 western directed by Marlon Brando, but the Brando estate wouldn't deliver a print or somesuch.

So, the film we got instead was Jaco von Dormael's Toto le Heros (Toto the Hero), a bizarre Belgian concoction of 1991 that's part Prince and the Pauper, part Singing Detective, part Citizen Kane and very Gilliamesque. A movie that's hard-to-explain but that's definitely worth renting, Toto follows the story of one Thomas van Haserbroeck (Don't call him van Chickensoup), an imaginative young boy unsettlingly in love with his sister, a lonely man contemplating an affair with a mystery woman, and a deeply depressed senior citizen looking to exact revenge for a life-long grievance. Y'see, Thomas (or Toto, as he's called in his dream life, where he's a film noir gumshoe) insists he remembers being switched with another baby -- his wealthy next-door neighbor, Albert Kant -- during a fire at the hospital, and therein, in his mind, lies the source of most of his troubles. As the story switches back and forth in time, Toto and Albert's lives keep butting against each other in strange doppelganger fashion, while old-Thomas enacts a plan to reclaim his stolen life...

After the movie, Gilliam returned to the front for a wide-ranging Q&A session, which involved questions both probing ("Did you borrow from Toto in 12 Monkeys?" [No, don't think so.]) and peculiar ("Where'd you buy your shoes? Where's the worst place you ever spent the night?" [Birkenstocks, some backwater hut in India]) Along the way, Gilliam told tales of first meeting the Python guys, photographing Frank Zappa in 1967, choosing his various directors of photography, and, the battle of Brazil notwithstanding, generally enjoying the constraints of studio heads and limited budgets. (They focus him.) Speaking of which, he also said Good Omens still seems to be moving forward, and Quixote may still happen someday. (He also mentioned The Defective Detective briefly, but it seemed in the past tense.) And these days he's digging the new Dylan album, as well The Arcade Fire's Funeral and The Flaming Lips' At War with the Mystics.

At one point, he also said he was considering suing Bush, Cheney, et al for making an unauthorized remake of Brazil. With that in mind, I asked him whether his views on Brazil had changed at all now that we're kinda living it. (I mean, what with Cheney playing Mr. Helpmann, Canadian citizens getting Buttled, and the Dubya team now fully sanctioning Jack Lints, what's a good Sam Lowry to do, other than await his turn in the chair or on the waterboard?) He noted that, obviously, Brazil-type stuff was going on around the world at the time (in the Soviet bloc, Argentina, etc.) but that he watched the film the other day (to check out the new Criterion HD-DVD version) and was amazed at both how prescient and topical it was.

Throughout, Gilliam was amazingly friendly and personable, and came across a remarkably humble and down-to-earth guy. He kept taking questions well after the IFC-suit tried to close down the affair, and hung around the nearby cafe afterwards to sign various items. I ended up being the second guy in line, and got him to sign the Brazil still above (one of five I have framed in my hallway.) When he asked me my name for the signature, he lit up, "Kevin! Time Bandits Kevin!" I told him I was right around that age when I first saw Time Bandits, and he's definitely got a lot to answer for.

After several intensive days of travel back from Kauai, HI by way of Norfolk, VA, Berk and I are back in NYC for the fall term. Dissertation work notwithstanding, updates should hopefully resume their normal schedule around here.

"When you look at this tower, it will immediately tell you where the memorial park is. It's always pointing." Architects and developers reveal the rest of the proposed Lower Manhattan skyline at Ground Zero, to accompany the Freedom Tower.

By way of a friend in the program, it's the NYT through right-wing eyes. Well, that explains a few things.

As the five-year anniversary approaches, New York Magazine wonders "What if 9/11 never happened?", putting the question to Andrew Sullivan, Thomas Friedman, Dahlia Lithwick, Frank Rich, Tom Wolfe, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Fareed Zakaria, Douglas Brinkley, and others. (By way of Lots of Co.)

If you're going to see only one movie about 9/11, see Paul Greengrass' United 93, far and away the best movie of the year. If you're going to see two movies about 9/11, see United 93 and Spike Lee's The 25th Hour, still the best film I've seen about the day's aftermath here in Gotham. And, if you're going to see three movies about 9/11...hmm, now that's a tough one. Maybe add the first hour of Steven Spielberg's War of the Worlds and the first half-hour of Oliver Stone's surprisingly rote World Trade Center? While much better than the godawful Alexander or the misfiring Any Given Sunday, World Trade Center nevertheless suggests that Stone is still somewhat off his game. The movie has some moments of genuine power, particularly in its first act (as it would have to given the potency of its source material), but it's hard to believe the director of JFK, Platoon, Natural Born Killers, and Nixon would make such a staid and conventional Lifetime movie-of-the-week from the defining tragedy of our decade. (Even more unStonelike, aside from an indirect dig at the blathering television newsmedia, who continuously recycle the morning's events well past everyone's endurance, WTC is also resolutely apolitical and uncontroversial.) In sum, World Trade Center is crisply-made and at times affecting, but nowhere near as interesting or eventful a movie as you might expect. As EW's Owen Gleiberman aptly summed it up, "World Trade Center isn't a great Stone film; it's more like a decent Ron Howard film."

Much like United 93, World Trade Center begins in the wee morning hours of Tuesday, September 11, 2001 (3:29 am, to be exact), as some of New York City's earliest risers -- and, indeed, the City itself -- wake up to face another day. Among the bleary-eyed morning commuters are two of the Port Authority's finest, family men Sgt. John McLoughlin (Nicolas Cage) and rookie officer Will Jimeno (Michael Pena). We follow McLoughlin and Jimeno through the beginnings of their usual routine -- walking the beat at the Port Authority bus terminal -- until the shadow of a jet zooms overhead, and the horrors of the day start to unfold. An expert on the World Trade Center since before the 1993 bombing, McLoughlin quickly leads a busload of anxious Port Authority cops down to what will soon become known as Ground Zero, where he and a small team (including Jimeno), after choking back their awe and fear, enter the mall concourse between the towers. As metal coughs, creaks, and grinds onimously in the background, these first responders gather up their gear and prepare for their trek up Tower 1. But, just when McLoughlin gets wind that there may be something wrong in Tower 2 (news which Jimeno heard on the way down), a terrible Wrath-of-God rumbling begins, and the World caves in. Having barely made a desperate sprint to the elevator shaft, which McLoughlin -- thankfully -- had known was the strongest part of the building, the surviving members of his team find themselves entombed (and partially crushed) amid a hellish morass of concrete and twisted steel. Then -- although they have no clue what's going on -- the other Tower falls, and McLoughlin and Jimeno are left alone in the dark, hopelessly pinned underneath the smoldering wreckage of the two towers.

Up to this point, Stone's movie is almost completely riveting, and the scenes in the doomed (and painstakingly recreated) WTC concourse in particular have a horrifying "I can't believe I'm seeing this" feel to them...Unfortunately, we're only about thirty minutes into the film. For the next ninety minutes, WTC switches back and forth between these two dying peace officers and the anxious pacing of their confused and griefsick wives, Donna McLoughlin (Maria Bello, wearing really distracting blue contacts that make her look Fremen) and a pregnant Allison Jimeno (Maggie Gyllenhaal). Alas, horror yields to hokum, and the film pretty much wallows in melodramatic platitudes for the remainder of its run. This is not to say that the rest of World Trade Center is terrible -- It's competently made and, given the human drama at stake here, even moving at times. But it's also breathtakingly conventional, with Stone (and WTC's writer Andrea Berloff) pulling every single disaster-movie-tearjerker cliche out of the book by the end: flashbacks to happier times, ghostly visions of loved ones (as well as a faceless Jesus, which is the closest Stone gets to his usual obligatory shaman cameo), the kid who won't accept the situation at face value, the musing over last words spoken, etc. (The bromides also extend to the brief and not very realistic characterizations of some of the post-collapse rescuers, which include Stephen Dorff, Frank Whaley, and Michael Shannon.)

Along those lines, I don't want to make it sound like I'm criticizing the true story of McLoughlin and Jimeno -- their story is a miracle, and one of the few small beacons of cheer from that terrible morning. But, when a movie called World Trade Center ends up focusing so narrowly on these two survivors and -- big spoiler, but it's in the poster -- ends with happy reunions and two families getting unexpectedly wonderful news, something seems off. Unlike United 93 which managed to recapture both the primal nightmare and unexpected heroism of that day and did so unblinkingly, without sugar-coating the fate of the fallen, WTC instead transmutes the stark emotions of 9/11 into saccharine, easy-to-swallow caplets of Hollywood sentiment. Some people may like this alchemy better, I suppose, but, in all honesty, to me it felt like an overly-sanitized cop-out (or two cops-out, in this case.) World Trade Center means well and is a decent film in every sense of the word. But the first half-hour notwithstanding, it also feels superfluous -- which, given the confluence of director and material here, is somewhat surprising.

Best of luck to all the local folks sitting down for the first installment of the 2-day New York Bar exam this morning (including one of my favorite people these days.) While I'm loath to concur with anybody from the von Mises Institute, I've always been inclined to agree with this article, which points out that, much like the AMA over on the doctor side, the primary purpose of bar organizations ever since the progressive era has been to create arbitrary barriers to entry and thus raise the salaries of practicing lawyers, to say nothing of the cost of both law school and legal services. Having now witnessed the bar-prep experience from some remove, I have to say that my suspicions about the somewhat shady nature of the whole enterprise have been sharpened, what with the seeming Bar/Bri monopoly on prep courses and what appears to be the test's extreme emphasis on rinkydink legal minutiae that could very easily be looked up when (or if, so much of it being archaic and obsolete -- dueling, anyone?) it ever became necessary. All that being said, the bar is obviously aptly named, so here's hoping any and all GitM readers/lawyers-to-be in the NY area hurdle it with maximum dexterity and minimum fuss over the next two days. :)

"In buildings like 712 Nostrand Avenue, residents, many of whom are small children or seniors, go for months at a time without heat or hot water in a building that is little more than a sieve, with holes in the walls, dislodged window frames, and the wraith of a roof door off its hinges." Friend, poker buddy, and journalist Olaf Bertram-Nothnagel evalutes the sordid career of Olufemi Falade as part of the Village Voice's Ten Worst Landlords series.

"Fonteyn could not jump the way ABT's Gillian Murphy did on Monday night..." My sister Gill (recently interviewed here) gets a pair of nice reviews today for her recent turn in ABT's Sylvia. 'Gillian Murphy, who danced the title role on Monday, was born to play Sylvia...even early in her career she had a gift for ornamenting bold, bravura dancing with filigree musical phrasing, and that gift serves her well."

A belated happy 230th Independence Day to you and yours, and here's hoping the recent spate of scary news (North Korean missiles, incipent war in Gaza) didn't detract too much from the festivities in your parts. (Also, with regards to more joyous fourth of july rocket launches, congrats to the crew of Discovery STS-121 on a successful return to space yesterday.)

At long last, it's official: After a nightmare 23-59 season and several weeks of "dead man walking," Hall of Famer Larry Brown has finally been fired from the Knicks. (In fact, the team isn't even planning to pay out his contract, although Brown may be able to pay the bills in Charlotte in short order.) Worse still, in his place the team's woefully inept owner, James Dolan, has -- Oh No! -- put the even more woefully inept GM, Isaiah Thomas, in charge of the bench. Ok, Larry clearly wasn't meshing with the ghastly hydra-headed line-up of shoot-first, one-dimensional, no-d-playing guards Thomas has constructed...still, I have to think we were probably a better team with him at the Garden. And with Isaiah in charge now, hoo boy. It's gonna get ugly at MSG next year.

What can Brown do for you? If you're the Knicks, not much more, it appears. As the playoffs continue apace, owner Jim Dolan appears to be on the verge of firing Larry Brown (and thus eating his $40 million contract.) True, Larry hasn't worked out at all...but don't get too excited, fellow Knicks fans: Dolan is apparently thinking of replacing Brown with the fearsome vortex of egregious decision-making that is GM Isaiah Thomas.

So maybe this is why Berk can't stand the droid...experience yet another freeloadin', Magnolia Bakery-filled day in the life of a NYC Roomba. (Via High Industrial.)

"In the weeks to come, much will be written about her central role in shaping our ideas -- and our ideals -- of urbanism. The praise will be deserved. During the 1960s, a time when the reigning orthodoxy was urban renewal, which generally took the form of urban demolition, she championed a more evolutionary, humanist, and small-scale approach to city planning." Slate's Witold Rybczynski ruminates on the legacy of Jane Jacobs, who passed away yesterday (1916-2006.)

"With today's agreement, we can now move forward with rebuilding the World Trade Center." After months of wrangling, developer Larry Silverstein and the Port Authority strike a deal on the planned "Freedom Tower" at the WTC site. Said Pataki: ""This is the last stumbling block to putting shovels in the ground." Construction on the 1776-foot Freedom Tower is set to be completed by 2012.

And, in related news, the Knicks end their thoroughly depressing 23-59 season with a meaningless win over the playoff-bound New Jersey Nets. (Of course, the nightmare won't fully be over until Chicago uses our possible #1 pick, which it scored in the Curry trade after Isaiah Thomas, not the best GM out there, neglected to lottery-protect it.) And now, the post-mortem begins: Larry Brown sounds like he'll be back for now, which means many of the more recalcitrant Knicks this year (I'm looking at you, "Starbury") are likely as good as gone. Still, one small bit of consolation for Garden fans this season, courtesy of swingman Jalen Rose: "I put together our roster on 'NBA Live,' and we're pretty good."

"Across nearly 50 years, the coaches of the best Knicks teams -- Joe Lapchick, Red Holzman, Hubie Brown, Pat Riley, Jeff Van Gundy -- sucked every ounce of talent and effort from their troops. They didn't always win it all, but they emptied the tank in the attempt. When they lost, they lost without disgrace. Even when the Knicks were truly bad, the scent of those years didn't rival the unbearable stench of this one." With the Knickerbocker freefall continuing apace, ESPN's Ken Shouler lays the blame squarely on Larry Brown. Well, when you're 19-54, there's a lot of blame to go around.

As spotted in the new Money magazine (p. 100), my sister Gillian and her longtime boyfriend Ethan are featured in ABT's ad campaign for their upcoming Spring season at the Met -- Tickets are on sale now.

Big doings in our lively little village: Friday night, I caught one of rock's greatest and most influential ironists, the inimitable Ray Davies of the Kinks, in town for a weekend stand at Irving Plaza. A spirited and well-preserved 61 (Having gone to so many Dylan shows, where Bob has settled into a late-period rasp behind the keyboards, I'm always surprised to remember that time has been kinder to many of Dylan's contemporaries), Davies offered up two sets of rollicking good ditties ranging all the way back to 1964's seminal breakthrough "You Really Got Me." Here's the setlist:

Set One: I'm Not Like Everyone Else | Where Have All The Good Times Gone | Till the End of the Day | After the Fall | 20th Century Man | Oklahoma U.S.A. | Village Green | Picture Book | Animal Farm | Johnny Thunder | Sunny Afternoon | Dead End Street | Apeman | Next Door Neighbor | Creatures of Little Faith | Over My Head | The Tourist | Low Budget

Set Two: Stand-Up Comic | Things Are Gonna Change (The Morning After) | A Long Way from Home | The Getaway (Lonesome Train) | Tired of Waiting for You | Set Me Free | All Day and All of the Night

Encore: You Really Got Me | Lola

All in all, a very fun evening. Looking quite a bit like Jonathan Pryce these days (particularly in his Miss Saigon period), Davies enlivened the older-leaning, fan-heavy crowd with mid-song banter and fraternally condescending anecdotes about his Kinks companion and younger brother Dave. ("He's still a big kid, really.") To be honest, I'd would've preferred to hear less of the early Brit-Pop standards and more of Davies' grimly funny ballads of class and character. (For example, "Shangri-La", "A Well-Respected Man", "Dedicated Follower of Fashion", "Celluloid Heroes", or "Waterloo Sunset") But, with a back catalog as long and rich as Davies' (and a new album to promote), there are always going to be songs you don't get to hear on a given night. (And besides, the one-two punch of "Sunny Afternoon" and "Dead End Street" was a nice, wry combo of essential Davies.)

Spring has sprung here in New York City, hopefully to stay. It couldn't have been a nicer day here.

In a happy collusion of one of my favorite sports and one of my favorite drinks, the New York Metrostars are now Red Bull New York. Mmm, Red Bull. I'm not usually one for blatant corporate sponsorship, but I think I may have to buy some RBNY paraphernalia close to immediately. Now if only we can get Guinness to buy the Revolution...

Steve Francis? Kenyon Martin? Lamar Odom? Reggie Evans and Danny Fortson? With the season a wash, the Knicks seem hell-bent on making at least one more panic trade. I get the sense this will all end very badly.

Oof. Having lost 9 games in a row and 15 of the last 16, the 14-36 Knickerbockers are now the worst team in franchise history after 50 games. Was it really only a month ago, after that six-game winning streak, that I was trying to climb aboard the Larry Brown bandwagon? I think I may have broken it.

Now this is a blizzard. I gotta say, the novelty's already worn off (particularly since, as per the norm, the snow salt is already playing hell with Berk's paws.)

See what you've wrought, Kobe? Local prospect Epiphanny Prince puts up 113 points in a high school game. (Final score: 137-32.) "'It's an amazing thing when an individual does that,' NBA star LeBron James said when told about Prince's performance. 'I don't know who she is, but maybe we'll see her in the WNBA. For that matter, the NBA.'" Doesn't sound like the other team was all that competitive...But, heck, I'm sure we could find a spot for her on this current Knicks squad.

With a tip-off from the Progressive Patriots Fund, I had the opportunity yesterday to catch Sen. Russ Feingold speak on the Patriot Act and the NSA wiretapping scandal over at Cardozo Law School. (Their pics are a lot better than mine -- I forgot to charge my batteries, and thus only got in 2 or 3 shots before my camera died on me.) And how was he? Well, all-in-all, he came off as a convincing candidate for the election ahead, as well as an impressive, informed, and personable fellow. To be honest, I found his remarks a bit lawyerly (then again, he's a lawyer speaking before a law school, so that's not really a fair criticism), but, taken in full, he seemed a committeed progressive and a refreshingly candid leader, the type of dynamic, independent thinker the Senate should be teeming with, if the system came anywhere close to working these days.



The gist of Sen. Feingold's remarks was thus: Al Qaeda is the central threat facing America and has been since 9/11. Yet, instead of bringing the nation together to eliminate this terrorist organization, the Dubya White House has chosen time and time again to endanger our national security and compromise our most fundamental American values for their own ideological or power-hoarding purposes. (Iraq, Guantanamo, extraordinary rendition, secret gulags, you name it.) Along those lines and as we now all know, the Patriot Act, which only Feingold voted against in 2001, contains some terrible provisions therein, the most notorious example affecting Middle America being Section 215 (which gives law enforcement, among other things, the right to see what you've been reading.)

Yet, as per the norm, Dubya has refused to admit that it's even possible that something might be wrong with the Patriot Act now that it's up for renewal -- only that it's necessary to defeat the evildoers and that any microscopic change in the statute could rend the fabric of freedom irreparably. (Despite this now-somewhat hoary ploy, Feingold and others have succeeded in blocking a permanent blanket extension for now, as y'all know if you've been visiting here lately.) And, of course, Dubya has taken this same tack of obfuscation and fear-mongering to cover up his brazen wiretapping power-grab -- which, according to Congress's own research arm, broke at least two laws and counting.

Again, this story is not news to many Dems out there, but Feingold laid it out in clear, comprehensible, and systematic fashion. (The only "breaking news" made was the Senator announcing this letter to Gonzales, asking him why he, in effect, lied to the Judiciary Committee during his confirmation hearings about the NSA wiretaps.) And he had some good lines throughout -- In reply to Rove's ridiculous claim that Dems were "pre-9/11", Feingold quipped that the GOP suffered from a "pre-1776" mentality these days. (He also retold the recent Patrick Henry exchange.) To be honest, I'd liked to have heard more in this vein -- In terms of breaking down the legislative legerdemain and legal issues at hand, Feingold was superb. But I thought the speech needed more narrative sweep and rhetorical grandeur, more explanation of why this battle matters so much to the workings of the republic. He doesn't have to turn into Robert Byrd overnight. Still, I thought the remarks could have benefited from more dramatic heft and historical resonance: Jefferson, Madison, Adams, Lincoln, Wilson...they're all relevant here. (Then again, as I said above, I was an historian sitting in a room full of lawyers, so I was a tougher sell than most.)

Along those lines, if there was a problem with this presentation, it's that the Senator, while clearly outraged, at times seemed much less livid about all this than many in the audience, who occasionally sounded ready to hoist the black flag. (In fact, many will no doubt be happy to hear that Feingold was asked twice "why Democrats are so lame." As he noted (and as the blogosphere can attest this week), if a crowd in New York City is this irate with the party, the Dems might be in serious trouble nationwide in November. Still, he also emphasized that the Democrats could be more effective fighters if they actually controlled a house of Congress -- You can't hold hearings if you're in the minority.

In terms of other questions, Feingold said he supports and will take part in the very late-developing (and now already defunct) Alito filbuster (Roll Call.) In fact, he thought the Dems made a crucial mistake in capitulating to the original "Gang of 14" compromise, arguing cogently that Dems have seen nothing for it and may well have had the votes to win Catkiller's game of nuclear chicken. Since Casino Jack and lobbying reform seemed too big a subject to address competently in the time allotted, I asked him a question about his thoughts on the NYT decision to spike the NSA story for a year, his general view of the mass media's performance in serving as a check on these types of executive abuses, and ('cause it seemed apropos) his thoughts on the burgeoning blogosphere's role in all this. He didn't really go after the Times decision, and said that, in terms of the recent Patriot Act debate, he thought the press had actually done an ok job. Regarding blogs, he called the Internet "a miracle for populist politics," which was a good enough soundbite that everyone in my row dutifully wrote it down at the same time.

And, of course, Sen. Feingold was asked -- a couple of times -- whether or not he was running for President in 2008. Naturally, he played it coy -- After all, we still have just under two years before the Iowa caucus. But, for what it's worth, I was impressed by him -- He's not a first-class emoter like Edwards or Clinton, of course. Instead, he comes across as a highly intelligent, capable, and nuanced thinker, a la Bradley, Kerry, or Gore on his better days. But unlike those three, he also seemed much more comfortable in his own skin, more naturally himself at the podium, and -- most importantly -- more content to play the maverick if his lefty principles dictate thus. (Although, as I said, I'd like to see him tone down the lawyer-ese and rev up more Wellstone-ish fire if he does make a White House run.) I suppose there's a small, bordering-on-infinitesimal chance that Rodham Clinton, Biden, Warner, or someone else might drop all the "New Democrat" protective camouflage this time around and begin loudly and undefensively proclaiming progressive principles to the Heavens. But, until that unlikely event, my candidate in the 2008 Democratic primary is Senator Russ Feingold of Wisconsin. (Update: 1776 link via Medley.)

The MTA strike has begun. As I'm ensconced uptown and have completed most of my christmas shopping, the strike doesn't much affect me yet, although picking up my rental car for the drive home in the HOV-restricted zone of Manhattan might turn out to be a pain...we'll see.

which is good, 'cause it's looking right now like the long-simmering transit strike will in fact happen, if not tomorrow then Monday. Update: Or Tuesday.

As a nightcap to Kong (who, as it turns out, was sitting outside the venue) yesterday evening, I caught Goldfrapp for their only US performance (although they're rumored to be touring here in 2006) at the surprisingly spacious new Nokia Theatre in Times Square (it used to be a mega-sized theater...I saw Titanic there back in the day.) All in all, an excellent show -- Allison's voice sounded studio-perfect and their sultry electrobeat bounce really filled the room:

The (Supernature-heavy) Setlist: Train / Tiptoe / Koko / Slide In / Number 1 / U Never Know / Lovely Head / Fly Me Away / Satin Chic / Beautiful / Ride A White Horse (a particular highlight) / Ooh La La

Encore: Strict Machine / Black Cherry

The stage show (if you don't count the Jesus lookalike playing synth-violin) basically involved two dancers writhing in various costumes: as bikini-clad werewolves in "Train" ("Wolflady sucks my brain"), glittering horses in "Ride the White Horse," spidery green winged-things for "Strict Machine," and so on. Meanwhile, the comparatively demure Ms. Goldfrapp, looking a bit like Debbie Harry in a dark pantsuit, held court at center stage, and she sounded amazing. (Damiella/Dream Out Loud has posted some pics. If you invert the angle and add a few more heads, you basically get the show from my perspective on the right side of the room, where I'd fallen in with fellow bloggers Chris/Do You Feel Loved and Matt/Fluxblog.) At any rate, if they come to your town, check 'em out (and preferably in a spacious venue like the Nokia Theatre -- you'll want room to bop and dance.)

A closely-fought game at the Garden Formerly Known as Fleet for 48 minutes, followed by the worst overtime loss in Knicks history...oof, it's going to be a long season. Tighten the screws, Larry...we need some defensive boards in the worst way.

"As quintessentially American as Ms. Part is Russian, Gillian Murphy joined ABT in 1996, instantly raising our national banner of strong, brisk, technical prowess." By the way, my sister's fall ABT season began on Wednesday, so if you're in the New York area and looking to partake of some choice offerings of world-class ballet, head on down to City Center. The Fall Repertoire includes Afternoon of a Faun, Apollo, Dark Elegies, Gong, The Green Room, In the Upper Room, Kaleidoscope, Rodeo, and Les Sylphides.

Houston, we still have the same old problem. And thus, longtime Knickerbocker guard Allan Houston retired from basketball today, as a result of his lingering injuries (and as a condition of his not being Allan Houstoned this past summer.) Good luck to ya...and thanks for the memories.

"Black inhabitants of the 'neat little settlement,' the [1856] article said, 'present a pleasing contrast in their habits and the appearance of their dwellings to the Celtic occupants, in common with hogs and goats, of the shanties in the lower part of the Park...The policemen find it difficult to persuade them out of the idea which has possessed their simple minds, that the sole object of the authorities in making the Park is to procure their expulsion from the homes which they occupy. It is to be hoped that their removal will be effected with as much gentleness as possible.'" A team of archaeologists from Barnard and City College use ground-penetrating radar to probe under Central Park for remains of Seneca Village, a 19th century settlement displaced to make way for Olmstead & Vaux's grand refuge and left forgotten for over a century.

Based in Chesapeake at the moment, I've been missing out on all the madness in NYC these days, such as bus evacuations and the new, already-infamous subway searches. Others such as Medley have already ripped this new policy to pieces, but, really, what are they thinking? Any actual, honest-to-goodness terrorist with a bomb on their person will refuse the search request, turn around, and make the 5-7 minute walk to another subway station. These searches are totally pointless and at best produce nothing more than a hassle for commuters and the fleeting illusion of security. At worst, they're flirting with unconstitutionality and give the impression of police state search-and-seizure tactics becoming omnipresent in American life. Isn't that what the "evildoers" want?

"Gillian Murphy, who danced Sylvia on Friday, looked as if she were born to dance this role. Her natural, bold attack and imposing presence make her the perfect Sylvia." Gill's star turn in ABT's revival of Sylvia (which I caught at the Met on Friday) opens to stellar reviews. In addition, Gill is profiled in this month's Pointe Magazine. (Unfortunately, the text is unavailable online, although the pics are here.)

"Why should his name be sounded more than yours? Write them, yours is as fair; Sound them, Yours doth become the tongue as well." Why? Well, cause he's a full-fledged movie star, that's why. Still, despite having a bit of a muttering problem at times, Denzel acquits himself "honorably" as Brutus in Julius Caesar, which I saw last night at the Belasco Theatre. Set in a half-post-apocalyptic, half-Depression-era Rome that evokes anything from Masked & Anonymous to Black Hawk Down, this version of Shakespeare's classic is innovatively staged and well-worth seeing, but, unfortunately, it also suffers from a stylistic dissonance that hinders the play at its most crucial moments.

The central problem with this production is the clash of acting methods. Many of the actors -- and particularly Denzel -- underplay their roles to the extreme. In fact, in delivery if not in diction, Denzel's naturalistic Brutus is only a step or two from most of his other performances, be it Glory, Devil in a Blue Dress, or The Manchurian Candidate. That would be fine, if everyone else was on the same page, and a lot of the other actors are. Jack Willis (at left) deadpans Casca like Cypher from The Matrix, and Patrick Page steals his one major scene (in which he convinces Caesar to report to the Senate on the Ides of March) by portraying Decius Brutus as the worst kind of unctuous DC aide, complete with a leather executive folder in tow and a flatterer's simper plastered on his face.

Unfortunately, some of the other actors didn't get the memo. Bill Sadler's Caesar is prone to acts of grandstanding, but that's acceptable -- he's Caesar, after all, and bestrides the narrow world like a Colossus. No, the main offender is Colm Feore as Cassius, who plays the lean, hungry Machiavel in full "Master Thespian" mode -- at times he's hammier here than he was in Riddick. I'll admit, I may be being a bit hard on Feore, as Cassius has always been one of my favorite Shakespearean characters (well, until he gets all weepy and high-maintenance in the second half of the play.) And Feore's performance might be fine for a different cast of Caesar...but here, he's just off. If this is Denzel's Julius Caesar, as everything seems to suggest, Feore's portrayal of Cassius should have mirrored Denzel's low-key, understated Brutus. Instead, Feore is overplaying to the hilt, and the contrast is jarring in every scene the two central plotters share.

The Denzel-disconnect causes problems elsewhere, too, notably in the crucial Act III funeral speeches. Eamonn Walker makes a fine Mark Antony throughout, but he just doesn't have the star wattage or natural charisma of Denzel Washington. As a result, Antony's manipulative eulogy -- the critical hinge moment of the play -- seems slightly tepid and uninvolving compared to Brutus' earlier rousing oratory. It's possible that I'm just ruined by the James Mason-Marlon Brando version, as there does seem to be some precedent in the play for this take: "I am no orator, as Brutus is...I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, to stir men's blood." Still, I think there's a dramatic problem if Brutus' oration is more of a showstopper than Antony's. If anything, it seems here that their roles should have been reversed.

Still, despite these grievances, Julius Caesar is a satisfying production for the most part, with some particularly nice visual flourishes throughout. The Escape from New York, Berlin-bunker look of the set seems strange at first, but gains potency as the play darkens -- in the "Cinna the poet" mob scene, for example. (Speaking of which, between this and Sith, it's been a bad week for republics.) And I particularly liked the look of the Senate, even if it was somewhat reminiscent of Liev Schrieber's EXCOMM war room in the Henry V revival two years ago. (With that in mind, the play gets off a great Homeland Security gag, as the various conspirators have to figure out a way around the Senate metal detector.)

The war scenes of the final acts are also surprisingly kinetic, with Roman forces garbed in guerilla green or black weaving through the hollowed-out set and spouting commands in verse. In fact, while I guess this shouldn't be a shock given the subject matter, this production of Julius Caesar is also quite grisly -- they don't skimp on the blood and gore, and Sadler's corpse is frozen in a horrifying Ring-like rictus scream during the Antony speech. (Strangely, this produced nary a shudder in the crowd, while the mere sight of Caesar's bare posterior earlier on sent the audience into a paroxysm of shocked gasps -- the MPAA has screwed up this country something fierce.)

So, in sum, Julius Caesar is a worthy production that makes for a good evening out, but it's got some issues that keep it from being an all-time classic version of the play. The fault, dear readers, is not in its stars, but in its supporting cast, that they are underlings. In the end, a more balanced production, with either more or less star power, would have probably worked out better.

In between film projects, the Coen Brothers and Charlie Kaufman have teamed up for Carter Burwell's Theater of the New Ear, a pair of radio plays recently performed at London's Royal Festival Hall. The cast includes Steve Buscemi, John Goodman, Marcia Gay Harden, and Philip Seymour Hoffman for the Coen's "Sawbones," and Meryl Streep, Hope Davis, and Peter Dinklage (taking time off from Lassie, I presume) in Kaufman's "Hope Leaves the Theater." (These apparently were also performed in Brooklyn two weeks ago, but tickets were hard to come by.)

"'I think people will find something in the objects to provoke new levels of interest and new levels of scholarship,' Howard Dodson, chief of the Schomburg, said in an interview. 'We've consciously tried to stay away from putting a heavy interpretative line on it and to let Malcolm X speak for himself.'" The NYT previews the new Malcolm X exhibit, opening at the Schomburg Center next Thursday.

Family plug: My sister Gill will be heading ABT's production of Swan Lake (filmed at the Kennedy Center this past February) on PBS's Great Performances Monday, June 20, at 9pm. I caught it tonight at a special viewing at Channel 13 headquarters for the dancers (and their NYC-residing brothers), and Gill & company look amazing. It's well worth catching if you harbor even the slightest interest in ballet (and, for that matter, even if you don't...c'mon now, Swan Lake is a classic.) :)

Neglected to mention this earlier...but last week, I caught Roundabout's Twelve Angry Men revival at the American Airlines theatre. As with Streetcar, my basis for comparison is fuzzy -- I saw the Henry Fonda film years and years ago. Nevertheless, I'd say this version does justice to the material, and is well worth seeing if you get the chance.

Unlike the star-studded HBO version, this 12 Angry Men works as a great showcase for underappreciated character actors. The most famous face is probably the ubiquitous James Rebhorn as Juror #4, although #7's John Pankow (a.k.a. Paul Reiser's brother on Mad About You) and Broadway veteran Tom Aldredge (Clooney's boss in Intolerable Cruelty) as #9 may also elicit a stir of recognition. To a man, this cast performs admirably, with each actor getting his moment in the sun.

Alas, if the show has a weak link, it may well be Boyd Gaines as Juror #8 (the Fonda role.) In a way, it's not Gaines' fault - but the fact that he looks like a cross between Fonda and Jimmy Stewart invites comparisons that redound against him, particularly as it seems at times that he's actually doing a Fonda impression. [Robert Foxworth (formerly of Falcon Crest), does better in the less-iconic Lee J. Cobb role (#3) -- if anything, he reminded me of Darren McGavin.] Still, this is a quibble. In general, 12 Angry Men is an engaging night out (and good mental prep for my own jury duty in a few weeks.)

By the way, I'm on the Roundabout Theatre mailing list, but if any readers out there know the mailer discount codes for The Glass Menagerie, Hurlyburly, Glengarry Glen Ross, and/or particularly Denzel's Julius Caesar, the information would be much appreciated. :)

Bob at the Beacon, Night 3 (for me) [Monday/Tuesday]:

Maggie's Farm / To Ramona / Cry A While / Bye And Bye / Ballad Of Hollis Brown / If You See Her, Say Hello / Lenny Bruce / Honest With Me / The Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll / High Water (For Charley Patton) / I Shall Be Released / Highway 61 Revisited

Encore: Po' Boy / All Along The Watchtower

In all honesty, I think this was my least favorite setlist of the three shows (that missed Wednesday gig still haunts me.) Although I did get to hear my favorite song on Love & Theft this time around -- "Cry A While" -- I generally prefer the Time Out of Mind cuts when it comes to the new stuff. Still, the show wasn't a bad one by any means, and while my own personal highlights came early in "Maggie's Farm" and "If you See Her, Say Hello," it was also nice to hear "Hollis," "Hattie," and "I Shall Be Released." (And even after two previous shows, nine of tonight's 14 songs were new to me during this Beacon stand.)

So, that wraps up this leg of the Never-Ending Tour...Next up for Dylan: A ball park summer swing with Willie Nelson, which unfortunately won't be making it to the city. Catch it if you can. (And by the way, if you ever hit up the Beacon for a summer show, dress light. It's a great venue in terms of acoustics and view, but the air flow in there leaves something to be desired.)

Night #2 of Bob's Beacon Stand:

Tombstone Blues / Love Minus Zero/No Limit / Lonesome Day Blues / This Wheel's on Fire / Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum / John Brown / Under the Red Sky (Listen here) / Highway 61 Revisited / Bye and Bye / Shooting Star (Listen here) / Honest With Me / Masters of War

Encore: Don't Think Twice, It's All Right / All Along the Watchtower

So, only two repeats from last night (Highway 61, Watchtower) in a 14-song setlist...that's not bad at all. Tonight's choices were more esoteric than Monday's show, with "This Wheel's on Fire" and "John Brown" the main standouts in the middle going. "Masters of War" has been given a spooky and even somewhat jarring update -- as my friend Jeremy noted, it's not exactly the type of song you expect to rock out to. And, while I don't think I was as moved in this show as I was by "Visions of Johanna" or "Desolation Row" the night before (the stifling heat in the upper deck cheap seats didn't help), any evening in which you hear the freewheelin' Bob Dylan perform "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" has to go down as a good one.

Unfortunately, we missed Amos Lee this time around. As for Merle & the Strangers, I'd say their setlist was about 50-60% the same, although, Greatest Hits-wise, "Silver Wings" and "Okie from Muskogee" had been replaced by "The Bottle Let Me Down" and "Are the Good Times Really Over." And, on both nights, Haggard has crooned a ditty called something like "Wish I Was Thirty Again," which strikes a favorable chord in this corner.

At any rate, I'll be missing the next two shows, but am greatly looking forward to the last stop of this tour, Saturday night at the Beacon. (Yea, I know three shows is kinda decadent, but tix went on sale the Tuesday morning after Hunter checked out, and it seemed to me then that it's worth catching Dylan as many times as possible if given the opportunity. Two shows into this swing, I'm not regretting my decision at all.)

The Bob Dylan Show's freewheeling week in NYC began here last night at the Beacon Theatre, and it was a doozy. Bob's got two opening acts this time around: First up was Amos Lee, a young guy who seemed pretty talented and exuded a sort of John Mayer/VH1-Storytellers vibe, and his three-piece band. Unfortunately, I arrived late and only caught the tail end of their set, but what I heard sounded pretty good.

Then came Merle Haggard and the Strangers, a well-traveled outfit (according to them, 40 years and running) with -- as my friend Alex pointed out -- the spitting image of Boris Yeltsin on the drums. Haggard & co. offered some old-school, easy-listening, toe-tappin' country...I'm not a fan by any means, but I recognized some of the songs, including "Workin' Man's Blues," "Okie from Muskogee," and a cover of Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable." (Well, it's Merle Haggard...I wasn't expecting "London Calling.") And, despite some stage banter that sounded like it'd been in the can for a really long while (replete with rim-shots), the Strangers offered up a decent hour of countrified ditties that made for a solid, if somewhat quietening, kick-off to the Dylan set.

Finally, at around 9:30 or so, the man of the hour. Dylan's show hasn't changed all that much in the past couple of years, but he's honed further his crack team of back-up musicians, and the stage design -- red velvet curtains, a starry backdrop -- has a choice David Lynch surreality to it this time around. Here's the setlist:

To Be Alone With You /
I'll Be Your Baby Tonight /
It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding) /
Visions Of Johanna (listen here) /
Cold Irons Bound /
Moonlight /
Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again /
High Water (For Charley Patton) (Listen here) /
Summer Days /
Standing In The Doorway /
Highway 61 Revisited /
Desolation Row

Encore: Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues / All Along The Watchtower

Aside from the occasional harp solo at center stage (during "I'll Be Your Baby Tonight" and "Desolation Row," for example), Dylan spent the evening on the keys. His voice is not it what once was, obviously, but I generally get over that by the first song or so -- In fact, on some cuts, like "It's Alright, Ma" or "Watchtower," I actually find Dylan's current raspy, menacing delivery an improvement.

For me, last night's highlights were "Visions of Johanna" and "Desolation Row," both of which remain two of Dylan's most transcendent wordscapes. And the Hendrix-esque closer "All Along the Watchtower," while not really a surprise, just keeps getting better and better -- Bob's now added a very eerie echo-effect to the last couplet ("Outside in the distance / A wildcat did growl / Two riders were approaching / The wind began to howwwwll...") I'm very much looking forward to seeing how he'll top that tonight.

Last night, my sister and I went to go see the most recent revival of A Streetcar Named Desire, with Natasha Richardson as Blanche and John C. Reilly as Stanley. And, while I don't claim to be an expert by any means -- At the risk of looking like a rube, I'll admit I went in with only vague impressions of the Brando-Leigh version, which I found had been interpolated, embarrassingly enough, with Cat on a Hot Tin Roof -- I quite enjoyed it.

At turns willowy and brittle, Richardson's Blanche DuBois has, as Michael Stipe once put it, that "knowing with a wink that we expect from Southern women." A pampered schemer whose delicate flower act obscures the grim realizations borne of an all-too-tragic life, Blanche is a fading memory of the Old South -- She seems lost without a mint julep in hand and completely out-of-place in rough-and-tumble post-war New Orleans. I expect Richardson's take on the role is probably slightly less sympathetic than in some other versions -- no one deserves Blanche's horrible fate; nevertheless, Richardson's DuBois, so insufferable at times in the early going, does an exemplary job in Act 1 of proving Benjamin Franklin's adage that "fish and visitors stink after three days."

For his part, John C. Reilly is also memorable as the vindictive, animalistic Stanley (although nobody would argue, except perhaps Stanley himself, that this iteration of Kowalski has any of Brando's physical magnetism.) Reilly's Stanley is a hard-living working-class schlub who becomes increasingly more dangerous as the "Every Man a King" prerogatives he expects of domestic life are affronted by Blanche's continued presence. Most of the time, he sits coiled like a snake, bottle in hand...but, when the moment strikes, Reilly lashes out with a feral fury that's all the more frightening for being unexpected (he's definitely not the type of guy you want in your poker game.) And, when Stanley finally gains the upper hand on his unwanted houseguest, his predatory instincts take hold in brutal and remorseless fashion.

At any rate, a good show. I can't compare it to earlier iterations of Tennessee Williams' play, but I can say that Richardson, Reilly, and the rest of the cast at the very least do Streetcar justice.

"Before the season, the Knicks were going to take New York back again. They were so sure of it...Now, [Isaiah] Thomas simply stands in the tunnel between the locker room and the court, arms folded, watching this mess unfold night after night." As another dismal season wheezes to a close, Adrian Wojnarowski sees no respite ahead for the Knickerbockers.

"This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart." Denzel Washington's Broadway turn as Brutus open to solid reviews. Between this Julius Caesar revival and Twelve Angry Men and Hurlyburly and the Richardson-Reilly Streetcar, among others, there are a lot of plays in town right now I wouldn't mind catching at some point.

"Even before he had established himself as a delineator of New York places, the artist had already pinpointed a New York state of mind. That state is not so much 'loneliness,' as the maudlin cliche about him would have it, but a tougher and more unsparing isolation that touches on the traps of modern urban existence, one in which individuals must become inured to life's insults and injuries." Art critic Avis Berman previews her new book on Edward Hopper's New York for the Sunday Times.

An event of note last night here at Columbia's Miller Theater: Music critic Greil Marcus, Princeton historian Sean Wilentz, and Oxford poetry scholar Christopher Ricks came together to contemplate Dylania old and new. Marcus began by speaking on the many lives of "Masters of War," including Dylan's Gulf War I Grammy performance and the recent "Coalition of the Willing" episode at a Boulder, Colorado high school. Wilentz followed by discussing Dylan's debts of gratitude (and debt to history) in the recent Chronicles. And Ricks punned his way through a priceless disquisition on Blonde on Blonde and the differences among poetry, prose, and song, finishing his remarks with a defense of "Just Like a Woman," which apparently has been deemed misogynistic in certain academic corners. (I asked the panel about the mixed reception to Masked & Anonymous, and Wilentz & Marcus in particular praised it as an underrated film...I'll probably have to see it again at some point.)

All in all, it was quite an interesting evening of Dylanology, although I must admit, I was a bit put off by some of Ricks' comments in the Q&A session -- He called "Masters of War" (and, for that matter, "The Death of Emmett Till") self-absorbed and overly tendentious songs, which I think there's a good deal of truth to, but then proceeded to castigate the audience for indulging its generally anti-Bush sentiment (via some mild chuckling) during Marcus' Coalition of the Willing anecdote. Ricks began by deploring knee-jerk political responses in either direction as a typically American (and occasionally Dylanian) vice...ok, fine, that's a criticism we've all heard before. "Fist fighting is here to stay,
It's just the old American way." But Ricks then went on to bemoan the tribulations faced by his poor right-wing friends in Massachusetts, who thought -- correctly, in Ricks' view -- that "John Kerry didn't deserve the presidency." (As you might expect, this gave the smattering of right-leaning folk amid the audience a chance to clap vociferously and to indulge anew the currently-popular fallacy that they're an oppressed minority.)

Yes, unfortunately, the decline of civility in debate and the "MacNeill-Lehrerization" of every issue into two opposite and irreconcilable poles are lamentable repercussions of the way politics is practiced today, as Jon Stewart famously noted on Crossfire several months ago. (Or, as Bob once put it, "Lies that life is black and white spoke from my skull...Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.") But that doesn't mean that Americans' opinions of the war in Iraq aren't well-thought out and hard-won. Ricks treated the issue as basically six-one, half-dozen-the-other, that to voice an opinion about the Iraq War is somehow irresponsible and -- worse -- uncouth. (Whatsmore, I had no idea what anybody's politics were until Ricks began complaining about the presumed incivility in the room, at which point the audience immediately bifurcated into lefties and righties.) In sum, incivility is a serious problem, sure. But, for that matter, so is war.

The Q&A aside, though, the evening made for an eloquent appreciation of the many gifts of Bob Dylan, gifts further illuminated by the warmth and regard with which Marcus, Wilentz and Ricks held these songs to the light and uncovered some of their fragile tendrils of meaning and allusion. And if nothing else, the conference made for an excellent excuse to go home and delve into Bob's back pages for the remainder of the evening, and listen to old songs with new ears.

"Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music cry 'Caesar!' Speak. Caesar is turn'd to hear. Beware the ides of March." Be careful out there today, y'all.

"Of Dylan's many achievements, the most fundamental was his hitching together of the folk-lyric tradition and Western modernism, connecting them at the point where their expressive ambiguities met...Dylan did not do this to prove a point; he was naturally omnivorous, and he intuited the connection without worrying about pedigree." Sent to me by All About George, Luc Sante surveys recent Dylan literature for the NY Review of Books. Speaking of which, tickets for Bob's upcoming five-night stand at the Beacon Theatre go on sale this morning at 10am. In a perfect world, I'd go to all of 'em (while catching a matinee of Hitchhiker's on that Friday, April 29.) But, financial constraints being what they are, I'll probably settle on either 2 or 3 shows. We'll see.

Uh-oh. My subway line of choice -- the A/C -- is taken out by a control room fire...and the C may be down for several years(!) Looks like I'll be whispering of escapades on the D train for some time to come. Update: The MTA revises their prognosis...looks like it'll take months to fix, not years. Update 2: Make that days -- the C is already up and running again...false alarm.

Hope everyone in the local environs had a safe and lovely blizzard. I spent a good part of the weekend at a junkyard in Queens, surprisingly enough, helping a high school friend of mine attending the NY Film Academy with his latest project, an underground video for Death Cab for Cutie's "Title and Registration" (Not this one.) Unfortunately, the interminable cold and some continuing camera problems interrupted our shoot, so it looks like my inauspicious video debut will never see the light of day. (Probably for the best -- I think my face was frozen into a grimace most of the time anyway.)

Fortunately, during the actual full-on Saturday evening blizzard, Berk (who's having serious issues with the snow-salt) and I were safely ensconced in my apartment, catching up on the remainder of The Office. A brilliant show, that, even tho' the final 2-hour special turned out a bit more upbeat and saccharine than I might have preferred. And what's Arthur Dent (Martin Freeman/Tim) going to do when he can't look directly at the camera?

Long have I desired to look upon upon the waffle fries of old. Just before the holidays, I'd heard from a few Carolinians in and about the city that, yes, there was in fact one Chick-Fil-A in Gotham. And, sure enough, this morning I found it, in NYU's Weinstein Hall at the northeast corner of Washington Square Park. (Alas, it was closed until Tuesday, when the new NYU term starts -- and it looks like there may be intermittent security attempting to keep displaced non-NYU Southerners like me away from the quality chicken products.)

Yesterday's anniversary made it occur to me that it's been ages since we've had any gratuitous Berkeley pics around here. So, without further ado, here's me trying to get Berk to pose next to the Boy and Dog Tom Otterness sculpture gracing my street corner (along with Fallen Dreamer) until this weekend. As you can see, there were more interesting goings-on elsewhere...

So, in their first stop since Dubya Day, REM played the Garden last night. A good show, and they played my favorites from the new album ("Boy in the Well," "High-Speed Train," "The Outsiders") But there was obviously a very strange and subdued vibe to the proceedings. Angela McCluskey, the opening act, struck an appropriately funereal tone with a swelling rendition of The The's "Love is Stronger than Death." And Stipe, for his part, seemed as staggered as most of the crowd, and barely spoke at all -- (not that it much mattered...85% of the people there seemed to be waiting for "Losing My Religion" the whole time anyway.) All in all, I enjoyed last year's stop more, but obviously those were happier times for both the band and the nation. Setlist below:

"Simple, plain Clarence! I do love thee so, That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven." It appears that, while Ian McKellen has been traipsing about Middle Earth, a hobbit-sized thespian has captured one of his signature roles: The Station Agent's Peter Dinklage talks about his forthcoming Richard III at the Public Theater. I'd very much like to check this out.

Well, with talk of deregulation, privatizing Social Security, tax code "simplification", anti-gay and pro-life rhetoric, "Hollywood value" and "activist judge" hectoring...all punctuated by that off-putting and consistently out-of-place chimp smirk, you can't say Dubya didn't warn us about his plans for a ultra-conservative second term last night. (And for a man who was heroic enough to stop circling Nebraska and venture down to Ground Zero three long days after 9/11, he seemed amazingly ready to bolt-and-run at the sign of one measly protestor.)

Not much was said about Dubya's first four years in office, of course, aside from 9/11 (9/11, 9/11) and the usual conflation of Al Qaeda and Saddam. But, really, what can he say? Deficits through the roof, the worst jobs record since Herbert Hoover, 1000 men and women dead in a needless diversion of a war...His administration has been an embarrassment of historic proportions. And it is time for him to go. (Dubya video via I'm Just Sayin'.)

By way of a friend of mine in the program, the NY Post has discovered that apparently the GOP delegates are terrible tippers. "'I wouldn't call them bad tippers -- I'd call them non-tippers!,' said Thomas Potesak, a concierge at the Sheraton Manhattan...'It's like they're completely unfamiliar with the concept of tipping.'...Abraham Bolzman of the New York Hilton was also perplexed...'They're always saying 'God bless you.' I guess I'm used to something more tangible.'"

Of course, there are some New Yorkers happy to see the GOP here, namely the finance types. "[T]he firms, which lean Republican in their political giving, are eager to show their gratitude to President Bush and GOP lawmakers for enacting legislation providing billions of dollars in tax and other benefits to their industry and for Bush's pledge to seek even deeper tax cuts." Yeah, I bet they are. Well, at least the GOP does in fact support their corporate "values"...In fact, Wall Street may be one of the few groups of self-professed Republicans around the country that aren't being lied to constantly by the Bushies.

Aside from one burning float (and poor mask-wearing Rosario Dawson), the first protests against the GOP Invasion Force were both plentiful and peaceful. (I thought the Billionaires for Bush bit was a particularly nice flourish.) I just hope the rest of the protesters this week are better than I am at restraining their anger and contempt over the 9/11 graverobbing about to ensue.

The board is set, the pieces are moving, and a host of sweaty, overweight middle-aged white guys in short-sleeve dress shirts marches forth to hold our fair city siege. (You think I'm kidding, I was surrounded by a gaggle of 'em earlier this afternoon outside Artie's Deli...they all had matching GOP 2004 name tags, along with their designated rank in the Noble and Benevolent Order of Somesuch, and they were all sizing up passers-by with sneers that suggested equal parts suspicion, fear, and disgust. Look, buds, the feeling's mutual. People are strange when you're a stranger, and y'all are most definitely strangers.)

Meanwhile, it already looks like a 5-Star Grand Theft Auto rampage down at the Garden, with cops everywhere, choppers overhead, and black SUVs with police lights zooming back and forth. 33rd St. is completely cordoned off, Herald Square has become Hardball central, and concrete cinder blocks have been placed at all corners of MSG. Not much of a protester presence at the venue yet, although some forces seem to be gathering around Union Square (where I picked up the button at right.) Oh, yes, it should be a hot time in old New York town next week.

"When a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? If resistance against Bush actually plays into Bush's hands, is it really resistance?" In the Voice, Rick Perlstein joins the many lefty voices urging caution to protesters during next week's convention.

Various media outlets preview the protests in store for the GOP convention in two weeks. I basically agree with those who think that the protests will have to be very clever to have anything but a negative effect for the Kerry team. Shrill, violent, and generally idiotic forms of protest will only play right into the hands of the GOP, who are practically begging to have the distinction made between their flag-waving, 9/11-tombrobbing soiree in the Garden and the radical unwashed masses just outside. And given how lazy and bored the national newsmedia acted in Boston, I'd expect that the Talking Heads will be actively seeking out the craziest loons they can muster just so they can turn them into the story. We're treading on delicate ground here, fellow lefty New Yorkers...let's not screw this up.

The mystery of the grassy knoll has finally been solved, and the second shooter was...John Wilkes Booth?! For the first time in an age, I took advantage of the New York theater scene last night and caught the much-heralded revival of Stephen Sondheim's Assassins at the Roundabout Theatre, which chronicles the inner demons of Mssrs. Booth, Oswald, Hinckley, and assorted other murderers and would-be-murderers of presidents. All in all, I'd say I enjoyed it, although it took a musical number or two for me to warm to the material (some never made the leap -- the guy next to me left outraged.) And there's some memorable performances here, particularly Denis O'Hare as Charles Guiteau (Garfield's assassin) and Michael Cerveris as Booth.

Still, the basic (and ahistorical) message of the play -- that all assassins, whatever their surface motives, are just looking for a little happiness, a little love, and a little fame -- was encapsulated much more succinctly by Peter Gabriel's excellent "Family Snapshot" two decades ago. And, while I like that song and admire what this play was trying to be, this "everybody needs a hug" thesis is too reductively simplistic. Notwithstanding freak shows like Hinckley, assassination is by its very definition a political act, as is distressingly obvious to all of us given recent events in the Middle East. Sure, a lot of assassins are flat-out crazies...Hinckley, Mark David Chapman, Sirhan Sirhan. But others -- Booth, Guitreau, Leon "McKinley" Czolgosz, James Earl Ray, Brutus -- had a political agenda in mind that can't be explained solely by "bad reviews" or a lack of affection as a child (which is perhaps why the Sondheim play ignores the Stalwart v. Halfbreed internecine strife propelling Guiteau to his foul deed.)

Still, if you can stomach the subject matter, Assassins is a moderately engaging fever dream rumination on American loneliness and presidential murder, replete with a sinister carnival barker and Moebius strip leaps in and out of historic continuity. Perhaps the most resonant effect in the play is that of the other assassins -- eerie, floating, voiceless heads underlit to resemble Capt. Howdy in The Exorcist -- watching their colleagues from the mists of History, or from the grave. Misery loves company, and from Cassius on, assassins just adore a conspiracy.

Well, my recent injury has prevented me from seeing Gill tonight in La Bayadere as planned, but that doesn't mean you can't go. Tickets for ABT's spring season at the Met are on sale now through July 3rd.

By the way, for those of you who are interested, I've posted my and Rick Perlstein's lengthy responses on the Columbia union issue in the comments thread of last week's post.

Well, as readers closer to the nest here have probably noticed, I have yet to remark on the Columbia TA strike that's been happening on campus these past two weeks, for a number of reasons. For one, I've remained conflicted about the strike action for some time, as reported below. For another, I have friends on all sides of the issue here on campus and in the history department, and I didn't much feel like "poisoning the well" any further by needlessly antagonizing one group or another. That being said, after reading Rick Perlstein's open letter to Alan Brinkley that was being passed around yesterday, I finally felt compelled to respond to the whole imbroglio. As y'all know, I've hyped Perlstein's excellent book on Goldwater here more than once, and indeed, I posted one of his Village Voice articles in my last update. And, given that we've shared some minor correspondence in the past and that I felt his letter encapsulated much of the us v. them wrongheadedness afflicting the strike movement at the moment, I wrote him back. (He has since replied in turn, and quite graciously.) My response, edited slightly for punctuation and clarity, below:

Hi Rick,

Because of my oft-professed admiration for your work, I'll try to extend more courtesy to you than I think you gave Alan Brinkley in your recent open missive to him, and thus I won't be drawing any lines in the sand here regarding my stance on your character or my enjoyment of your company. Given that we've only "met" online, I'd be hard-pressed to do so anyway. Nevertheless, in the spirit of friendly disagreement (something going at a premium in Morningside these days), I'd be remiss if I didn't note that I found your recent letter to Brinkley a remarkably ill-conceived piece of "gotcha" that falls far below the usual quality and intuition I've come to expect from your writing.

I should first say that, until very recently, I have been a supporter of the graduate student unionization drive here on campus, although I suppose quite a tepid one by current standards. While I believe the argument most often heard by union supporters during this current strike (and in the pages of the Village Voice) -- that we are an oppressed subaltern class because we are paid $17,000 a year, at least $12,000 in housing subsidies, basic health care, gym membership, etc., to do what amounts to basically ten hours of teaching a week -- is patently ridiculous (and, in my admittedly anecdotal experience, is one more often voiced by graduate students who have nestled in the womb of academia ever since college, and never spent a year or two in the "real" world, where the work day begins at 8:30am in cubicles, service counters, and factory lines all across America), I do think there are other important reasons why a graduate student union may be beneficial to students, workers, and the university.

For one, I share your belief that collective bargaining is both the best means of negotiating a contract and a right hard-fought through the annals of American history. While I don't necessarily believe that we as grad students constitute workers in any traditional sense, I respect the right of my fellow grad students to vote up or down on forming a union if they so desire, and believe the administration should count and abide by the votes, pending a ruling by the NLRB. Second, and more importantly, I believe a graduate student union could serve as a useful tool in organizing sympathy strikes and publicizing the plight of those often-invisible university workers who do in fact face real hardships and obstacles to fair and equitable job conditions, be they clerical workers, building maintenance staff, administrative assistants, or adjuncts.

All that being said, this current strike was simply a bad idea, and one's that been getting worse as time goes along. It has been poorly conceived, poorly timed, poorly thought-out, and poorly executed to the detail. Garnering just over a third of the graduate student population (by union estimates) at its peak, the strike has suffered from an unfocused message and unclear goals from the very start. Worse, it has coasted along on a righteous, reactionary anger rather than by any force of logic, and, I believe, has had the unintended consequence of alienating and radicalizing the vast majority of faculty, undergraduates, and undecided graduate students from a cause they may have had great sympathy with, had this all been handled with any degree of aplomb.

To begin with, the reasons for the timing and duration of the strike were never satisfactorily explained to the rank-and-file, myself included -- Instead, the union organizing committee relied on extremely suspect voting methodology to procure the desired pro-strike margins from the membership: Rather than being conducted by an impartial third party (the Spec, for example), the ballot boxes were staffed with phalanxes of organizers at all times, who asked voters to vote Yes! and sign up for pickets WHILE they were voting. Despite the fact that this union, if recognized, will bargain for us all, only a significant minority of graduate students -- those who signed union cards previously (including myself) -- were allowed to cast a ballot on the strike. Those ambivalent students who had signed union cards in earlier years but had recently fallen from the One True Faith were forced to renounce their apostasy in order to vote, and then they were forced to sign their ballots(!) to be "checked against the roll of eligible voters." (Needless to say, this same attention to possible voting irregularities was not extended to the other side, so we "No on Strike" voters have only to presume that the many pro-union TA's who are no longer (or not yet) eligible to vote did not cast "Yes" ballots.) Over the nights between voting, the ballot boxes were kept in the safe and inviolate confines of the union office, rather than at an impartial location. And, when the votes were counted in this union office, we union members were only given a winning percentage -- 80% -- no tally of votes and no, I have since learned, opportunity for a recount or overview of the tally. (And yet, strangely enough, I can probably rattle off several dozen names of graduate student historians who voted No on this strike at this point...I guess I don't get out much. Or perhaps it's the radical scientists out there who accounted for the 80%.) Since your letter displayed such an eagerness to hoist Alan Brinkley on the petard of the Wagner Act, I am tempted to bring up the Mississippi Plan and all manner of Southern voting irregularities here -- some of which are described in your book -- but, while I'll permit myself the aside, that's exactly the type of shrill, ahistorical analogy that permeates campus right now and that has been so counter-productive in obtaining the union's goals. I will say, however, that it is remarkable that a strike ostensibly geared towards "counting the votes" would rely on such dubious voting irregularities.

Nevertheless, the die was cast, so to speak, and thus we unhappy lot cast down our pencils and blue books, told our students of our miserable back-breaking plight, and took up the picket. Or, I should say, many did -- I respected the strike action the first week but didn't picket, pending further information from the union organizing committee on what the hell exactly was going on. Why did we pick this fight, only two weeks before the end of the term (thus making it almost a foregone conclusion that the administration would ride it out)? What's the message the union is trying to get out with this strike? (The one you hear the most, on radio interviews, placards, and elsewhere, is that we are oppressed, but as I noted above, that's a lousy peg to hang one's hat on, and makes us seem all the more pie-in-the-sky privileged and self-absorbed.) If the strike's the stick, what's the carrot? Are we reaching out to the faculty and undergrads? Are we making common cause with other union groups? What's the agenda? What's the fallback position? What's the exit strategy? For the first week, these answers were not forthcoming, and I could educe no rhyme or reason from the Pravda-like e-mail I was getting in my inbox every day (Comrades! We have closed down 4 of 18 classes today! We have stopped UPS from coming on campus!...Well, that's good news for FedEx.)

So, by the time a number of pro-union students of the history department kindly sat down to address many of our concerns about the strike, after a full week into the action, I had a number of questions. Worse, given the aforementioned voting irregularities, the lack of structure or plan already evident by then, and the increasing shrillness of many of the strikers (Whatever you think of Columbia University or our situation, the Homestead Strike this is not), I went into that meeting with an awful creeping feeling I usually get when listening to officials in the George W. Bush administration: namely, either the union leadership is lying to me or they're incompetent. But what I discovered at that meeting was a third possibility I hadn't considered -- there was in fact NO union leadership. The strike was (and is) being run as a completely ad hoc operation, guided day-to-day not by strategy or pragmatism or political calculation but by a free-floating vexation against Columbia and its "administrative traps" (A phrase that came up often in the meeting.)

When asking the most basic of questions (Why now? What's going on?), I and other ambivalent students were confronted with the ugly sight of our colleages -- whose intelligence and scholarship in other matters I respect enormously -- responding with pro-union pablum and anti-administration indignation that had clearly gone stale in the echo chamber of long, shrill meetings. Basically, the message was this: You're either with us or against us -- There comes a time when the rubber hits the road, and that time is now. (Why that time was now was left unexplained.) This is our chance to stand up for what we believe is right, and we will do so until the heavens fall. We will fight against the increasingly corporate ideology of the University, who attempt to reduce us to squalor and turn academic inquiry into economic exploitation. This is all very inspiring stuff, to be sure, (as one of my friends at the meeting waggishly put it, "grab your little piece of the sixties while you still can"), but it doesn't answer the basic questions: Why now? Why indefinitely? What's the plan? Who's running this outfit?

Should we be concerned, I asked, that the Columbia history faculty, natural allies whose pro-union bona fides are considerable, may be alienated by our actions? No, because we've instead received a great deal of support from "the community." (Wow, David Montgomery is pro-union? Who knew?) Why did the union picket and/or boycott academic conferences, some of which carry a great deal more substantive and lefty weight than our cause to squeeze an extra grand out of Columbia? The answer? "Administrative Trap!" When I asked what we should do with our paychecks now that we weren't working (and which, nevertheless, the administration has continued to pass out), people looked at me like I was from Mars. Apparently, it's vote Yes on Strike, No on Sacrifice.

Needless to say, I left this meeting extremely dismayed, and it confirmed some of my more depressing suspicions about this strike from the very start. Most of the pro-union folks, all of whom I consider my friends and respect a great deal, had nevertheless begun speaking in platitudes, with very little sense of the situation on the ground or the political or pragmatic necessities involved in making a strike action work -- in fact, they often seem not to have even considered them. Worse still, somewhere in this endless fight against the administration, they had lost perspective -- The whole strike operation, while perhaps begun with the best of intentions, had devolved into some kind of bizarre pageant where we graduate students honored our progressive inclinations by dressing up as the Oppressed and railing against The Man, as portrayed in this case by the sinister agents of the University administration.

Which brings me full circle to why I found your recent letter to Alan Brinkley so appalling, given my strong sense from your writings that critical perspective is one of your long suits. Since you have met him and, until recently, seem to have enjoyed his company, I think you should have a sense of Brinkley as not the Machiavel he's been made out to be of late, but rather as an impressive and discerning historian-turned-university-administrator thrust into an almost-impossible position. Fair enough, your letter begins by pointing that out, but it then proceeds to try to twist the knife by invoking personal recollections and dubious ultimatums to expose him as some kind of corporate stooge, and frankly, your remarks here reflect worse on you than they do on him.

Ok, so Brinkley's personal views as an historian and commentator on public events and his current position as provost on the strike action have entered into some conflict...that much seems relatively clear. But is it really your contention that his stance on this ill-conceived strike by the graduate students should outweigh his opinion on every other issue facing the Future of the University, corporate or no? Is it possible that there may be other, and yes, even more fundamental issues on a provost's palette -- curricula, funding, expansion, public-private relationships, what-have-you -- than whether the UAW should represent us during our 3-5 years of teaching here? Could it be that Provost Brinkley might be able to do more to avert the growing corporatization of the university that you lament than Professor Brinkley, and that perhaps by heeding the university mandate on this issue for now, he can free up capital for a more-important and more well-thought-out stance against corporatization later? And what, exactly, is gained by his resignation of the provost post in the name of the Workers' Struggle that you propose, other than that he'll more than likely be replaced by someone whose views are much less sympathetic to unionization and anti-corporatism than his?

I can't speak for Professor Brinkley, and to be honest I have no idea what his thoughts are on this whole affair, although I suspect, like many people on campus, he's probably less sympathetic to a union than he was before this all started. For all I -- and you -- know, he could be the voice of reason working back-channels to get this sorted out to the union's advantage, despite their bad behavior over the past few weeks. It's certainly more likely than him going out of his way to crush the incipient uprising, as the prevailing propaganda (and your letter, to some extent) would have us believe. And it's even more likely that the folks calling the shots right now aren't Brinkley or even President Bollinger (who, you probably know, both came into office after the policy was set), but David Stern and the Columbia Board of Trustees. Surely, if you want to rail against the rising corporate tide in academia, a better target for your wrath would be the Commissioner of the NBA, who has proven himself no friend to labor over these years. In fact, perhaps a better use of union resources would be to hit corporatism where it hurts and to picket the businesses of these Trustees, rather than soaking up the sun at the 116th St. gate and cursing the names of those enemies of the people Brinkley, Bollinger, and Pinkham.

Well, as the increasing flippancy indicates, this letter has already gone on far too long, so I'll wrap it up here. As I've said many times before, I think very much of your work on Goldwater and in the Village Voice, and I don't plan to make this recent letter of yours any test of either your scholarship or your company. So I'll leave it at this: With various malfeasances and outright lies within the Bush administration emerging EVERY week now, with the images of atrocity now emanating from Iraqi prison camps and the situation on the ground seeming ever more precarious, with all the people in this country who are really having a hell of a time trying to make it day-to-day and who are deluged in right-wing agit-prop telling them it's their own fault, I am extraordinarily dismayed that a significant minority of my fellow graduate students have keyed in on "no dental care for Ivy Leaguers" as the evilest-of-evils to combat. And I am equally disturbed that you, who have proven such a penetrating and incisive critic of the Right and its wedge-issue divisiveness in this past, would abet this collective act of self-absorbed delusion by calling out one of our more valuable historians on the floor like this.

-KcM

Robert Earle sings the praises of pick-up hoops in the Washington Post (although, to be honest, his doesn't sound like the funnest crowd, what with all the foul-calling shenanigans on display.) The outdoor summer hoops are just getting started over in these parts, although I'm still nursing an ankle sprain from the spring season.

As it turns out, I was able to make it to the John Edwards event on campus this morning, and, all in all, I'd give him a B+. He both read and rushed through the first half of his remarks, which involved some new formulation of his trade policy (more on that in a second), and I found his opening lines particularly ham-handed and speechwriterly. "I know y'all have been waiting for a Son of the South to come to NYC...A-Rod," he said (and I'm paraphrasing.) "Well, I'm not A-Rod, but Wisconsin proved one thing: I can close!" Um, ok, but A-Rod is a shortstop and all, not a closer.

Anyway, nitpicking aside, Edwards improved measurably once he put the paper down and got into the rhythm of his "Two Americas" stump speech, which he'd clearly delivered many times. There were moments, however, when he definitely could have embellished his standard schtick, given the crowd. Edwards talked about how he was a lonely, legal David often going up and winning cases against a Goliath-sized team of corporate lawyers, a biographical stat which probably plays great in the Heartland. It went flat here, though, perhaps because the many law students in the auditorium seemed confused by his remarks: But we want to be those well-paid corporate shills!

Still, Edwards came off extremely polished and personable, and he definitely got the crowd on his side, even when he was blindsided by a sneak "Campaign on AIDS!" protest on the dais behind him. Several members of the VIP crowd unveiled red-ribbon shirts and began chanting right in the middle of his biographical portion (In fact, I could've sworn it was right after he gave the "son of a millworker" line, which was a clever signal to choose, if nothing else.) Edwards gave them a moment, asked the crowd to applaud the "activism of these young people," calmly told a heckler he'd address their point after finishing his bio, and then said a few positive words about fighting AIDS at home and abroad (A critical world issue to be sure, but not a particularly controversial one in this day and age...c'mon, y'all, this isn't 1988. And why try to derail a candidate who is politically sympathetic to your cause, particularly when Karl Rove is across town?) At any rate, no harm no foul for Team Edwards: He navigated this potentially rocky shoal extremely successfully, although I presume some advance guy or gal was given the serious what-for soon thereafter.

As for the trade stuff, I liked where he was going at first, but he eventually seem to fall back on the fair trade side of the usual dichotomy. As I see it, the problem isn't free trade itself per se as much as the loss of American jobs, as well as the ugly spectacle of corporations firing tons of US workers only to turn right around and offer up a fat dividend. Edwards obliquely mentioned this formulation, then fell back on tax breaks for "good" corporations and the trouble with NAFTA. My feeling is, if you want to stop this kind of behavior, there needs to be more stick and less carrot. Hit business where it hurts: Tax the heck out of (or even, God forbid, disallow) corporate dividends that occur in the same fiscal year as the downsizing of X number of American jobs. Simply put, if you can't afford to pay your workers anymore, you damn well shouldn't be paying dividends to stockholders. Edwards came close to saying thus, but then fell back into the old free trade/fair trade rut, which to my mind is a bit like shouting into the wind. If you want to change corporate behavior, focus on corporate behavior...don't blame the increasingly irreversible trend of globalization.

At any rate, all in all Edwards came off quite well, although not as inspiring or Clintonesque as I would've originally liked. He's definitely got a great future in the party and in American politics, and he'd no doubt make a solid contender in this election season against the likes of Dubya (or Dick Cheney.)

Well, it's not official quite yet, but this agreement today probably means the New Jersey Nets are Brooklyn-bound. I'd think most of Brooklyn is Knickerbocker country, but if it means NBA games will be cheaper and easier to get to for yours truly, I'm all for it.

While Dean and Clark parry for New York votes, Tom De Lay laments the loss of his GOP convention booze cruise. As of yesterday, "some Republicans in Washington who supported the cruise liner idea were still saying that it would not have taken much money away from the city and that perhaps there are some Republican members of Congress who want to take their families to the convention but do not want them to stay in Manhattan." I see. So for the GOP, New York City is a great place to wave the bloody shirt, but God forbid they spend a night there.

ABT and Gill's City Center season opens to grand reviews: "Gillian Murphy as Hagar, the repressed heroine, knew that a Tudor dancer emotes through movement, not the face, and much of her impact came through sheer muscular power, especially in her space-devouring leaps...The beauty of Ms. Murphy's performance was in its contrast, between her dazed outcast and a desperate but not hysterical woman whose emotions visibly surge through her body." Also in dance news, the Globe profiles Ethan Stiefel, my sister's boyfriend.

NYU alums and other lovers of Gotham's rock 'n' roll history scramble to save the Bottom Line, one of the most venerable nightclubs in Greenwich Village. If you get a chance, please take a moment to check out the site and/or sign the petition. It'd be a tremendous shame if such a classic New York institution was destroyed for the sake of a dorm and a few classrooms.

The Voice releases its annual Best of NY guide for 2003. Time to start explorin'.

So R.E.M. came to town Saturday night and played probably the best show I've seen by Athens' finest. (This is my fourth over the past decade.) First the setlist:

So all in all, a truly excellent show. There were other R.E.M. songs they're playing on this tour that I'd have loved to hear (Exhuming McCarthy, Feeling Gravity's Pull), but they played my two favorites (and my top two requests) -- Fall on Me and Country Feedback -- so I left happy. I was particularly impressed with Walk Unafraid and She Just Wants to Be, two songs off Up and Reveal respectively that really came into their own tonight, when Peter Buck chose them to show off his considerable guitar mojo. And the band wisely skipped some of their more saccharine moments -- Everybody Hurts or Strange Currencies, for example -- to showcase old hits (Rockville, Gardening) and political tone poems (Final Straw and World Leader Pretend, a special treat.) In sum, Stipe, Buck and Mills still got it, and I'm very much looking forward to their next swing through the area.

New York prepares for a mass re-burial of over 400 Colonial-era slaves in the spot where they were found 12 years ago. Perhaps this ceremony will help to encourage more formal and historic recognition of the city's relationship to slavery. (As the article notes, Gotham once held more slaves than any other city but Charleston.) And as New York, so too the nation -- While the Holocaust Museum serves as an important and necessary reminder of how nations ostensibly grounded in Enlightenment ideals can go terribly, terribly wrong, it's a bit glaring that we have such a fine museum in Washington dedicated to Germany's most grievous sin, without any comparable historic institution focusing on our own. A National Museum of Slavery is well past due, and, Civil War importance aside, it should really be on the National Mall, not in Fredericksburg.

Isabel bypasses New York. Hopefully everyone is safe and sound down South...I still haven't been able to get through to the family in Chesapeake, but I presume all is ok, give or take some felled trees and power outages.

"May I, composed like them of Eros and of dust, beleaguered by the same negation and despair, show an affirming flame." In terms of memorializing what happened two years ago, I'd say what I posted last 9/11 still stands. So once again, here's my original post, Auden's poem, and a (perhaps-too-balanced) assessment of the Patriot Act two years later.

Hey y'all...after a massive amount of traveling, bill-paying, and errand-running over the past 48 hours or so, I'm now back home in NYC. While I'm a bit melancholy that three weeks of sun and fun are over, there is something to be said for having Berk at my side and the world at my fingertips again...no more dial-up, booyah. At any rate, I'll post some vacation pics here once I get all my images organized...in the meantime, expect updates here to resume normal schedule.

Warriors, come out and play...With help from Columbia's own KJ, David Greenberg attempts to explain the lack of NYC looters during the blackout, particularly as compared to the events of 1977. Also, in blackout news, the Dems (Edwards excepted) point the finger at Dubya's lousy energy and infrastructure policies. Works for me.

Well, it looks like I picked a good day to be on the other side of the world...hope everyone is safe and sound in NYC and the NE corridor. I wonder if we can pin this on the Cheney Energy Task Force. Speaking of which, I wonder if Dubya's going to fly to Omaha and back again while they sort everything out.

Alas, I'm not going to be around (and my limited discretionary funds for concert-going was already spent on R.E.M. tickets), but if you live in NYC and you're looking to wash the taste of Masked and Anonymous out of your mouth, Dylan's playing the Hammerstein Ballroom August 12-14. Should be grand.

This Modern Age plays Hipster Bingo at the Siren Music Festival on Coney Island. (Via Listen Missy.) I was there on Saturday too, and was kicking myself for not printing out a card. (I must say I also quite relished being at a beach and being well within the skin tone median - usually I'm the whitest guy for miles, but with indy rockers galore about I felt certifiably tan.) At any rate, the only acts I caught were Hot Hot Heat (interesting), The Datsuns (bleah), and Modest Mouse (ho hum) - I spent most of the time enjoying ancient amusement park technology and eating carny food. All in all, it was a beautiful day to enjoy a quintessential NYC summer attraction.

No king of England if not of France. Alas, the NY Times didn't think much of Henry V in the park. I caught it a few weeks ago and enjoyed it better than this reviewer, for sure. Given recent events, I do wish they'd turned up the satire a notch ("We doubt not of a fair and lucky war," as the posters proclaim) and Bronson Pinchot's Balki-esque schtick as Pistol seemed wildly out of place. But all in all, I thought the show made for a lively summer evening. And as a fan of the McKellen Richard III, I enjoyed the WWI motif Liev Schreiber & co. were aiming for.

As Senator Moynihan is laid to rest in Arlington Cemetery, New Yorkers devise a fitting tribute for their fallen statesman: Moynihan Station, to be completed on the site of the Post Office atop Penn Station by 2008. Update: Here's some computer generated mock-ups of the future station, by way of Do You Feel Loved? (Thanks for the kind words, by the way.)

Forget the war on smoking - here's a Quality of Life initiative I can really get behind. New York City bans the use of cellphones during public performances, including movies. Sounds like a great idea, of course, but I have to agree with Hizzoner - it's pretty much unenforceable.

The transit strike is off. Now I'll be able to see TTT tomorrow night at 23rd St. without running across the city Three Hunters-style.

A judge issues an injunction against the Transport Worker's Union's planned transit strike, set to paralyze the city on Monday. As you can imagine, Manhattanites are watching this standoff, and Bloomberg's handling of it, with bated breath.

"Two years ago the only places it was illegal to dance were Manhattan and Afghanistan. And now you can dance in Afghanistan." The Village Voice delves into Manhattan's bizarre cabaret law, used since the Giuliani era to preserve "Quality of Life" and to stop New Yorkers from spontaneously getting their groove on. Speaking as somebody with happy feet (or, in the parlance of this article, an "incidental dancer,") I find this particularly annoying, and can think of a lot of other bar habits I'd rather see made verboten.

The Voice takes a snapshot of the current real-estate battle over Harlem.

With all due respect to the families and friends who lost loved ones in the horrible attacks one year ago, I think there's enough 9-11 memorializing out there at the moment without my further contributing. So I'll confine my links to my post that day, W.H. Auden's "September 1, 1939" (which I still think beautifully encapsulates both the despair of Ground Zero and the hope of Union Square one year ago), and the changes to your legal rights since then. (Last link via Genehack.) Let us hope that 9-11 stands alone with December 7 as a day that will live in infamy, and not as a prelude of darker hours to come.

Lonely New Yorkers create a new venue for meeting singles: the first subway car (Via Caught in Between.)

The Lower Manhattan Development Corp. releases six plans for WTC rebuilding. I'd say my favorite is the Memorial Garden (pictured at right), with the Memorial Promenade ranking a close second.