Casino Royale

I finally got around to seeing the latest James Bond flick. Here's what I thought, recycled from an email to a friend:

"Without a question the best Bond movie, unless one runs with the only real problem I had with it, namely that it's a Bond movie in name alone. It's so far removed from the set-in-stone camp template that it might as well be "The Bourne Identity." In fact, I think it basically is, a complement to both films. Still, I enjoyed it very much, even though as far as I can figure it has no discernable plot.

I love the way they wrote this Bond as the perfect mix of brains and brawn to the extent that he knows when to value the latter over the former. He's the type of guy who runs through walls if it gets him where he needs to be faster, esp. since he's sharp enough to quickly realize it's the type of wall you can run through. He's buff, alright, too, but I had no problem with that. For one thing, would we expect otherwise from a lethal killing machine? And also, if Daniel Craig can look like that, even as an actor with a personal trainer, then why not a spy who's in kill mode 24-7? It's five million times better than Paunchy Moore pretending he's a lethal killing machine to have a guy who looks the part.

Frankly, I prefer my action films sans plot. In this case, literally. It's not a bad plot, or a plot full of holes, or a lazy plot. There is no plot. Zero. I admire the moxie. The failure of 100% of the past Bond films is the lip service they give to plot, as if the pretense of plot isn't what always kills them in the end. This Bond is 100% character, 0% plot, which as a reboot strategy is pretty sound. Next time out it'll have a plot and therefore the sequel will let the reboot down.

In other words, who cares what Bond does? It's *why* he does it. Now, the “Bourne” movies are great because he doesn't know why he does it. Craig's Bond recognizes that he does it because he's a natural born cold-blooded killer suited to nothing else. Something kind of scary about that.”

Clueless in Paradise

Anyone ever seen David Brooks making the rounds on the talking head circuit? This is the last guy who should be writing about hipster parents, not least of which because clearly the last time the guy was in tune with anything hip was back when the Talking Heads were big, and even then I get the suspicion Brooks was too busy hanging banners for the Young Republicans to pay attention to pop music.

This guy takes Brooks down for me.

Dearly Departed?

What a stinker of an Oscars, huh? Not the broadcast, per se, which was simultaneously more streamlined than usual yet somehow, paradoxically, still over-stuffed, but the awards themselves. Most minor statues were spread out among a handful of worthies. The big ones, however, mostly went to lesser of two evils hackwork. Scorsese has deserved the Best Director statue several times, but not for "The Departed," which could have been made by anyone. And Best Picture to "The Departed?" Again, it's mostly better than the competition - thank God neither "Babel" nor the utterly forgettable "Little Miss Sunshine" won - but one pundit put it just right when he claimed that the horribly miscast and awkwardly edited film's legacy will be as a cable TV staple, not as a film for the ages.

That early Jack Black/Will Ferrell/John C. Reilly song was pretty funny, though.

New Books

In case anyone thinks I've fallen off, I've kept my promise to myself to read more books. The most recent tomes I've breezed through include food-snob Jeffrey Steingarten's "It Must Have Been Something I Ate," Michael Connelly's "The Narrows" and a book called "The Piano Tuner," by Daniel Mason. This last one I chose at random in Mexico and it turned out to be excellent. Lucky me. It's about a (yes) piano tuner sent from England to Burma to (yes) tune a piano. Why that piano is in Burma is part of the mystery in a novel that mixes the lessons of "Heart of Darkness" with the bits of "Moby Dick." Quite strong, even if it ends on an off note (ha ha).

"The Narrows" also ends poorly, but Michael Connelly is one heck of a page-turning, beach-read writing kind of guy. The thrillers I've read of his have been on par with the best of Elmore Leonard, another pop writer with chops so strong the critics cannot ignore them.

Steingarten's book is the follow-up collection of food essays to "The Man Who Ate Everything." Indeed, Steingarten does eat everything. That's because he eats like a man with deep pockets, no responsibilities and a massive travel and expenses budget. Needless to say, he writes like few men on earth since what he writes about is so out of reach of most people on earth. Not everything, though. It was this book that sent me to all those great bakeries in NYC. I wish there was a comparable writer in Chicago, though I guess I always have the indispensable LTH Forum.

Paczkis!

If there's a plus side to the predominance of religion and their various superstitions, it's in all the specific religion-related food you get to sample. Case in point: paczkis.

Paczkis are basically glorified donuts sold by some bakeries on Fat Tuesday, and only Fat Tuesday. The first time I came across them it was accidentally. I bought one, thinking it was just an everyday Polish variation on the donut, and was disappointed to find them gone the next day. The past two years, however, I've been better prepared. Yesterday I bough two fresh strawberry, one lemon, two raspberry and one apricot.

I didn't eat them all, of course. The picture in this post, which I stole from Chicagoist doesn't do these things justice. They're the size of huge burger! Two handers, really, or fork and knife if you're a neat-freak. They're also great: sweet, fruity and lardarific.

Richard Dawkins: What A Jerk

Even if one is inclined to agree with Richard Dawkins – and I suppose I am - his latest book “The God Delusion,” basically an attack on organized religion disguised slightly as a defense of atheism, is a big mess. Definitely one of the most poorly organized, and worst argued, polemical books I’ve come across in a long time, especially from someone so otherwise smart.

And maybe that’s the problem. Dawkins’ writing is rife with such hubris, such ego, that his little bits of humor get lost. Worse, he’s so impatient to make his related but ultimately inchoate points that he frequently detours to ad hominem distraction and easy jabs. For example, in discussing the documented atheism of Hitler and Stalin and its dubious relationship to their evil acts, Dawkins really has to do better than write that Hitler was relatively benign compared to the likes of Caligula or Genghis Khan. Only a person that would have likely escaped Hitler’s purges or Stalin’s pogroms would note such a thing, let alone assert its relevancy. Dawkins has an easy argument to make. Why go out of your way to screw it up?

Similarly, Dawkins’ thorough documentation of the contradictions and outright inanities of the Bible are pretty meaningless given his utter antipathy for those who take it at its word. Yeah, they’re stupid. But there are lots of stupid people in the world. Assailing them for being stupid is like dynamiting fish in a lake: sure, you’ll take out a bunch of them at once, but who wants to eat the charred remains that float to the surface?

In the end the book is lazy and disappointing from a guy who knows better. Or maybe he doesn’t know better. I’ve noticed before a correlation between Dawkins’ own fundamental beliefs and those of the religious people he disdains. And no, Dawkins, just because you don’t threaten anyone with violence doesn’t somehow put you above the people who do. On a rhetorical level you’re just as bad, an intellectual bully so convinced of your beliefs you think those with whom you disagree insult the world simply by existing. That’s a dangerous road to walk. No wonder you complain all the time that as an atheist you often walk it alone. Jeepers. What a jerk.

Stinging in the New Year

Anyone really surprised the Police are reuniting? Anyone? No? Of course not. There's so much money to be made, and for those amazed at how well the older 'n' wiser model sounds, what were you expecting? These guys are total pros, and Sting would never waste time on anything less than slick and perfectionist, or at least as perfectionist as the Police ever were or will ever be. It's nice to learn the band's world tour this summer will be just the three of them (that's fewer ways to split the cash), but the preview performances, from the Grammys to today's live webcast, have been proficient but not passionate.

Two neat asides. One, guitarist Andy Summers is almost a full year older than Keith Richards! The other is this most likely apocryphal Sting anecdote that's funny all the same (via a friend):

"My friend XX knows a guy who played Trombone on tour w/ Sting in the '90s..... apparently, Sting got FURIOUS that this dude's trombone playing was upstaging him and started subtly fucking him over -- "forgetting" to book his hotel rooms, stuff like that. After one show, Madonna started talking to Sting about how amazing the trombone player was, and apparently Sting threw a total hissyfit about it.

..... So in the wake of this, trombone player gets a call in his hotel room, and it's from Sting's wife. "Sting would like to see you... can you come up to his room?" Trombone player is confused, but obliges. Sting's wife opens the door and says, "oh, he's in the bath right now."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll come back later."

"No, please, go ahead in."

So trombone player goes into the hotel bathroom to find Sting luxuriating in the bath tub. "Oh, hello," says Sting. "I was just wondering if you would mind washing my back."

At that point, the trombone player walked off the tour, leaving Sting trombone-less.

I really hope this is a true story."

Blackbird

I'm tough to shop for, so good thinking, Alma, for taking me out to dinner at a fancy place for my birthday Saturday night (actual b'day was Sunday) instead of shelling out for some shot-in-the-dark gift. The food's out of my system by now, but I'll remember it for a while. Extremely well-prepared, seasonal cuisine, more or less American with a French undercurrent, with very fresh ingredients. I had the sturgeon. No doubt the guy with the Bentley parked out front had something more expensive, with a couple of bottles of pricey wine to go with it. But did he enjoy his meal more than I enjoyed mine? Probably not.

JT in a Box

My final day in New York, Wednesday, I spent mostly recovering at home, since my simmering cold had finally blossomed into a fuil-on sniff-a-thon. I did, however, need to deliver a set of keys to a mutual friend with a daughter Baby Z.'s age, who was taking over the place as soon as I finished with it.

The afternoon I spent heading to Chinatown for lunch with Jeff, whose parents were generously allowing me to stay in their place (whether they knew it or not). We had a whole bunch of meat, mostly pork and chicken, with some nice greasy dumplings and soup with ham and winter melon. Tasty but at the same time kind of gross, given my cold, but filling all the same.

Returning to home base I set up camp to wait for a messenger sent with my two tickets to Justin Timberlake at Madison Square Garden. There was a screw up, so I basically had to stay put until right before the show, so Brandon met me uptown for thai food before we drove midtown for JT at MSG. The show was pretty good, though not the best I had ever seen him, concluding with a semi-surprise performance of "Dick in a Box." At the least that shows JT doesn't take himself too seriously.

On the flight home the next morning my nose dripped the whole time. Did I get the cold in Mexico? In NYC, from my cousin's kids? The subway? From Z., before I left? It's a mystery, but I think I'm better now.

Tuesday, February 6th, New York

I had ambitious plans for Tuesday, and am proud to admit they all worked out. But man, did it kill me.

The past few days have been very cold, and I’ve spend a disproportionate amount of time running around outside. Yeah, public transportation is great here, but sometimes you still need to hustle a few blocks. Or a few dozen.

I started out the day by taking the subway uptown some more, meeting a fellow writer for breakfast spot known for being dog friendly. There were no dogs there, but I have seen quite a few dogs out and about, most wearing silly (but warm) coats. The breakfast was fine, and the writer (whom I had never met) turned out to be a good guy.

After breakfast, I booked it back downtown to where I’m staying to meet Brandon, who was on the UES for an interview. He changed out of his fancy pants and we watched some TV before he left downtown for a meeting. I stuck around a while longer then went downtown as well to meet Brandon (post meeting) and my pal Joe for noodles and pork at Momofuko, a Soho noodle bar. Very tasty and filling.

Even so, Brandon and I went to the esteemed City Bakery for coffee and tarts right after (I had cranberry/almond/caramel, he had some sort of white chocolate/raspberry confection). We stayed there until we were full and warm, then walked briskly downtown some more to a record store, a stop mainly to warm up once again, since it was bitterly cold and very windy. I was starting the feel the full-on effects of the cold, but trooped all the same.

Once we were prepared, mentally and physically, Brandon and I went down to Brooklyn, where he lives. There we had mediocre BBQ ("authentic Brooklyn BBQ," whatever that means), walked a whole lot more, then met Jeff (back from his trip), Fred, and a bunch of others for another friend, Leah’s, going away party. Curious, because the last time I was in New York, maybe two years ago, I went to another going away party for Leah. I guess the girl likes to leave.

It took me forever to make my way all the way back to uptown Manhattan, but I did get another New York story out of the trip. No, not the drug addict nodding off on the F train. I’m talking about the youngish guy who, with no warning, projectile vomited all over his end of the train, and did so for about five minutes in a row. New Yorkers are trained to ignore everyone else on the subway, so it took a few minutes for the sight and smell to radiate out and catch the riders’ attention. Needless to say, they quietly shifted down to the opposite end of the train.

Me feet ached, my nose was stuffed, and I was pooped once again. One day to go!

Monday, February 5, New York

Monday I woke up at the usual time, 7:30 (6:30 back home, when Z. wakes up), and walked to Le Pain Quotidian, this wonderful looking Belgian chain (several locations in Belgium and France, a few in New York and a couple in LA). It was great, though all I bought was a yogurt parfait (organic, with fresh fruit) and a small coffee. I waited a while back at Jeff’s place, then hit the road/subway to meet my cousin Debby and her kids.

I figured I could just take the train up town a bit then walk across the park – which I did – but I had no idea there was a giant lake smack dab in the middle, which added several minutes to the trip. Once there on the Upper West Side, we ordered in sushi and I went to work entertaining the two kids, Daniel and Jessica, the former primarily by watching bits and pieces of “King Kong” and playing dinosaur.

After a few hours, I took the train far downtown, to Soho, where I wanted to hit both the famed Sullivan St. Bakery and a store called Uniqlo, which is basically the Japanese H&M. Sullivan St. – recently renamed Grandaisy, I guess – was remarkable. I bought a piece of their pizza Bianca, which is a rectangular sauce-free slice seasoned with just a touch of salt and rosemary and served at room temperature. Huge piece, too, just for a buck. And they say there are no deals in New York.

Walking to Uniqlo and was one of the colder experiences in recent memory, to I celebrated my arrival by buying a sweater. Then I met up with my friend Brandon, first at the mini MOMA store and then for coffee and pastry before we drove a little across town (yes, people drive in New York) to the NYC deli staple Katz’s, where I shared a huge corned beef sandwich. There we met up with Fred again and another friend, Jamison, whom I hadn’t seen in years. Good time, but it totally wiped me out. Between the trip to Mexico (where Z. had a cold), walking around in the winter weather, and visiting my cousin (both of whose kids had cold) I felt my own tumble into sniffledom imminent, so I headed home straight after, ready for an even bigger day Tuesday.

Monday, February 5, New York

Monday I woke up at the usual time, 7:30 (6:30 back home, when Z. wakes up), and walked to Le Pain Quotidian, this wonderful looking Belgian chain (several locations in Belgium and France, a few in New York and a couple in LA). It was great, though all I bought was a yogurt parfait (organic, with fresh fruit) and a small coffee. I waited a while back at Jeff’s place, then hit the road/subway to meet my cousin Debby and her kids.

I figured I could just take the train up town a bit then walk across the park – which I did – but I had no idea there was a giant lake smack dab in the middle, which added several minutes to the trip. Once there on the Upper West Side, we ordered in sushi and I went to work entertaining the two kids, Daniel and Jessica, the former primarily by watching bits and pieces of “King Kong” and playing dinosaur.

After a few hours, I took the train far downtown, to Soho, where I wanted to hit both the famed Sullivan St. Bakery and a store called Uniqlo, which is basically the Japanese H&M. Sullivan St. – recently renamed Grandaisy, I guess – was remarkable,. I bought a piece of their pizza Bianca, which is a rectangular sauce-free slice seasoned with just a touch of salt and rosemary and served at room temperature. Huge piece, too, just for a buck. And they say there are no deals in New York.

Walking to Uniqlo was one of the colder experiences in recent memory, to I celebrated my arrival by buying a sweater. Then I met up with my friend Brandon for coffee and pastry before we drove a little across town (yes, people drive in New York) to the the NYC deli staple Katz’s, where I shared a huge corned beef sandwich. Totally wiped out, I headed home straight after that, ready for an even bigger day Tuesday.

A New York Story

This morning I went to run a couple of errands for a friend (getting keys copied, mainly) and picked up some cold medicine (for obvious reasons), but on the way around the block I stopped at this great Belgian bakery chain known for its organic ingredients and fresh preparation (I’ll go into more detail when I resume the regular diary). But it was there I got another great New York experience. While I waited for my coffee and tart, I listened to this middle aged lady in a fur coat complain and squawk to anyone that cared (or not) that her yogurt was taking too long.

“What’s takin’ so long?! How can this take so long?! I’ve seen other people served their yogurt in the back! Where’s my yogurt?! All this for a cup of yogurt!”

The staff was very patient, explaining that each order is made fresh, from scratch, but the lady was having none of it.

“I’m sure the yogurt is ready! I bet if you just looked it’s ready!”

“Ma’am,” they said, “we can see the counter and the order isn’t up.”

When the manager finally came out she complained, loudly, to him as well, even as they wrapped her yogurt to go. I thought about slapping her, but decided against it. On the way out, I held the door for another customer to enter, and the evil NYC crone, yogurt in hand, stomped out around me. And I didn’t get a thank you.

Sunday, Feb. 4 in New York

I woke up early Sunday morning, a habit having kids tends to force on you, so took my time getting ready. Once I got cleaned up, though, I decided to go to the Met, since it’d been years. As Fred reminded me, it’s amazing to experience the breadth and diversity of that museum, and while I’m not sure it totally cleans the floor with the Art Institute of Chicago, it’s pretty remarkable all the same. I saw a great exhibit of Weimar Republic era portraits of prostitutes and drug addicts, then coasted through the modern art collection and all of the European masters. When I get home I’ll post a funny picture of a group of little kids sprawled out on the floor in front of Renoir’s water lilies, doodling with crayons.

On the way back I spun by Dean & Deluca for a sandwich. I also got a perfect glimpse of the Upper East Side/NYC mentality, watching a couple announce to the guy behind the counter at D&D (which is, of course, monumentally expensive enough to make Whole Foods seem like a food stamp destination) that they were not American but were throwing a Super Bowl party and needed advice on what to bring. So I stood buy and watched them stock up on overpriced artesian fried chicken, dip and buffalo wings. No joke.

Walking further east I went to Two Little Red Hens, a Brooklyn bakery with an Upper East Side outpost. I bought two big cupcakes, a red velvet and a Brooklyn Blackout (essentially a gooey chocolate pudding filled treat). It was still cold as hell, but I decided to walk the mile down to where I’ve been staying, working up an appetite along the way. I also passed dozens of the great food options New York has to offer, from Burmese food to BBQ to Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Italian, Greek, diners, coffee shops, and so on. Nearly every one of them looked awesome, and a couple (like the Pinkberry no-fat yogurt chain) looked primed to make the leap to cities like Chicago, assuming they hadn’t already.

I scarfed down my food and decided to hang out for a while to watch a bit of the Super Bowl (hey, great first quarter!). Then I hopped on the train to Union Square to meet Fred again for burgers at the Old School Tavern, so old it felt just a touch warmer than it was outside, which was around, oh, 10 degrees or so, and gusty. With the perfect storm of cold weather, Sunday night and Super Bowl in effect, New York was like a ghost town (or, as my friend Brandon put it, looked like everyone was at church).

The burgers were good, nice hand-formed patties that reminded me of Goldyburger back home. Good football food, even if the Bears got their butts kicked. I hear people back in Chicago don’t have too many nice things to say about Grossman, but the guy did sort of choke in the bad weather. Half of his throws came closer to me in New York than they did to their intended receiver.

(P.S. I'll add links and pictures to all these posts later)

Saturday, Feb. 3 in New York

There was a pretty quick turn around between our Mexico trip and my departure to New York. Thankfully, our daycare provider and neighbor are both pretty helpful and flexible, as is Alma, whose permission was essential to my trip. In theory, I went out to New York to cover a couple of shows, but I got so much more than I bargained for.

Just kidding. It was mostly about the shows. But in between I caught up with a couple of friends, beginning with Fred, who lives in Ft. Green, Brooklyn. I took a cab down there to pick up keys to my friend Jeff’s parents’ place, currently vacant but fully operational (and very big) on the Upper East Side. Fred took me to Geribaldi’s, one of New York’s great old school pizza places, located near the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge Overpass (or Dumbo, if you buy into the silly real estate nicknames). We waited an awful long time in the freezing wind, in line – at an odd time of day, no less – to get in. Meanwhile, everyone outside was shivering as the wind whipped around the corner.

The funniest bit came when some other tourist in front of us turned to Fred and asked him if he had ever been there before.

“Yeah,” answered Fred.

“So,” said the dude, “is it any good?”

“Uh, yeah?” answered Fred. I mean, why else would we be waiting in line so long, in the freezing cold? Duh. It was pretty good, served whole as a pie rather than by the slice. We got pepperoni and garlic.

After pizza, Fred and I walked back to his place (he blamed the cold on his inability to find the numerous subway stops). On the way I bought a hat on the street, since my ears were falling off. It took long enough that we had to skip a famous Brooklyn bakery, most notorious for baking Lil’ Kim’s get-out-of-prison cake. The line was too long, so we just hopped on the train to Jeff’s UES place, where we warmed up.


Next we grabbed a cab to get down to Radio City Music Hall, where we saw the legendary Italian composer Ennio Morricone conduct a program of his best known film scores. Strangely, this marked his debut live performance in the States. Go figure. At the event I saw Brian DePalma. A friend (with better seats) saw Liam Neeson and Willem Dafoe. Afterwards I headed straight home, since I was exhausted and had a lot on tap for the next day. I picked up some provisions at a local grocer (coffee, bananas) then promptly collapsed.

New York

So, how’s New York, you ask? (And by you, I mostly mean Alma, though maybe one or two of you have wondered.) It’s been great, of course. It’s extremely, bitterly cold, and while not nearly as cold as Chicago is right now, the temperature and general discomfort has been exacerbated by the sheer amount of walking I’ve done. To be honest, since I’ve arrived my days have been fuller and longer than the average day at home, and my feet are certainly worse for the wear (and my wallet many bills lighter). It’s been a blast all the same. I should have been doing this all along, but I’ll divvy up this little diary sequentially, so you can pretend I haven’t been so lax.

We're Back from Mexico!