News: Let's All Agree

You don't need me to tell you who to vote for.

If you weren't swayed by one of the pep rallies that aired this month (I'm sorry, I mean "conventions"), then I sure as heck ain't gonna sway you.

I promised my sponsors that I wouldn't endorse one candidate over the other on this blog, and I'm a gal who keeps her word. However, I will say this. If you are voting for a candidate whose last name rhymes with Insane, then we are probably not sitting at the same lunch table in the cafeteria.

But that's OK. Because the one thing that we can all agree on fer shure, is that this presidential race is HISTORIC. Or, as the case may be, HERSTORIC.

Never before have we had the names of a [ed note: insert politically correct gender term] and a [ed note: insert politically correct ethnic term] in the same voting booth. How bout that? Way to go USA!

It got me thinking, which other dynamic duos is this world ready for? Who's missing from this ticket that should definitely represent at the next election?

Well, since you asked so nicely, I'll give you the list of duos who deserve their moment in the political sun:

1. A Jewish guy in a wheelchair, versus an Asian woman with a Texan accent.

2. An Hispanic lesbian, versus a gay Native American.

3. A reality star whose slogan will be, "I didn't come here to make friends", versus a Scientologist.

4. An x-child star whose rehab stint was already chronicled in a Lifetime movie in the 80's, versus Tracy Gold.

5. An actor whose credentials include, "playing a president on TV", versus the guy who invented Facebook.

6. Snoop Dog, versus Elliot Spitzer.

7. Anyone under the age of 30, versus a bald guy.

8. Chelsea Clinton, versus Ivanka Trump.

9. Judge Judy, versus Dr. Phil.

10. A moose-hunting PTA hockey mom, versus the guy who starred in Bedtime For Bonzo.

Where Were You When: Michelle Obama at the DNC

Did you see that??

Were you watching??

That was the BEST potential-first-lady speech ever! She's as good as her husband in front of a microphone!

You could just feel that this was a special evening.

HISTORIC.

You could just feel that energy, that this is a momentous occasion in American history. How far we've come. How far.

It was such a touching speech. The stories she told and the way she told them were so human. She seems like a normal person. And so beautiful! She looked so glamorous. She spoke candidly, and intelligently, and down-to-earth. You can tell she and her husband have a strong partnership.

And those kids! This is going to be a fun 4 years if we have those two as first-daughters.

But my favorite part of the evening?...

Michelle didn't wear pearls!!

People: Phelps Motivational Quotes

“It’s been nothing but an upward rollercoaster,” Phelps said. “It’s been nothing but fun.”

----

“When someone says you can’t do something, it shows that anything is possible,” Phelps said. “When you put your mind to a certain thing, it can happen. The biggest thing is nothing is impossible. All it takes is an imagination.”

----

“I’m at a loss for words,” Phelps said.

They gave him another medal, cranked up a final “Star-Spangled Banner” and as he looked over at his mother and sisters in the crowd he finally did something new.

He broke down and cried.

----

"I'm having fun and I think that's really all that matters," he said. "You can do anything. I think one of the biggest things I've learned over the last four years is that anything is possible if you set your imagination.

"Whatever you dream of, you can do. For me, the sky's the limit. I have some pretty lofty dreams in my head and those goals are going to stay there until they are accomplished.

"It's not going to be easy getting there and there are going to be some bumps in the road ... I don't think it's going to be perfect but it's going to be fun over the next few years while I finish off my career."

----

Eight gold medals: it is no small achievement.

"Well, I guess I'm supposed to tell more about how it felt," he said later. "But what is there to say? It was fun."

Drawing: Ahead of the Pack

Great illustration by Patrick Moberg

News: Phelps Returns Home

From The Onion

ORLANDO—Fourteen-time Olympic gold medalist and SeaWorld main attraction Michael Phelps returned to his seven-million-gallon water tank Wednesday to resume his normal schedule of performing in six shows a day for marine park crowds every day of the week.

Where Were You When: Michael Phelps

I was at a dinner with some friends and strangers on the upper west side. I kept my eye on the clock, feeling no qualms about jumping up mid-sentence when the race was about to come on. My friend asked the bartenders if they would turn the volume on the TV up for us when the time came.

I knew that at 10:10 he would be on. I swear I had my eye on the TV the whole time from across the room. At what I swore was 10:09, I saw NBC had finally switched over to swimming and I yelled, "NOW!" and a group of us bolted to the other side of the room.

When we got there, it seemed like we were watching the whole thing in instant replay. Literally. It was so slow. "When are they going to start?" I asked. "Why are they showing another race?"
Then we realized, they weren't. Somewhere in the span of time it apparently takes to blink, I had missed the race! How could that be? How fast do these swimmers go??

Weirdly, I blamed it all on NBC. I was absolutely convinced for the rest of the night that NBC had erred, and had only begun airing the race halfway through it.

My male friend, who is as obsessed with Phelps as I am, (his "boy crush", he calls him), started getting texts from people asking if he had seen the race. I said, "Ask them if they are as pissed at NBC as I am. What kind of network are they? Don't they know the entire USA is watching now! How could they do this to us??"

I really don't know how I managed to keep this train of thought going. I don't think it was until much later that night, when I talked to my sister about the race, that I realized NBC had shown the whole thing. I was just late to the game.

I'm not a usual sports fan. I don't really understand innings, or meters, or bases loaded. Being this psyched about watching someone take a world record in the name of athleticism is new to me. The whole week I felt like walking around asking people, "Have you heard of this swimmer? Do you know how important this race is?? Are you getting this???"

I had no idea that other people in the world were as obsessed with this as I was. I had no idea who Michael Phelps was until I started googling him last week, only to find out he's already been in an Annie Liebowitz commercial (I had told someone that this would surely happen for him one day), only to find out he's already making millions in endorsements (I had told someone that he would certainly get an endorsement soon), only to find out he's already been on the covers of magazines and leads the top of many BEST ATHLETES IN THE WORLD lists.

I had no idea that the LIFE OF BEING A SPORTS FAN was this exciting!

The next day, Saturday, it felt like I had planned my whole day around this last race. I was counting down the hours. By 10PM, I was in front of that television, eyes glued forward. NO WAY was I going to miss this one.

The race started. I was alone in my apartment, in my pajamas, dusty from a day of cleaning and reorganizing my home. I didn't really know that the entire nation was also at the edge of their seat, crowds in the thousands, hundreds in the bars. I was just a girl, alone with her new found Fan status, totally and completely excited to see history making.

The moment Phelps took to the water, it was like watching magic. The glistening way he soared across the water, chopping through the liquid like a man with axes for hands. His body leaping over the T-mark like a fish hunting his prey. He pulled us back into first and that's when I jumped up.

The fourth guy jumped in, and now I was screaming, cheering for him like he was my best friend and he needed to hear my support. "GOOO! GOO!" I was shouting at the television. Anticipation tore threw me and I begged for victory!


AND HE DID IT!


The excitement from that moment buzzed through me and the energy from that accomplishment felt like it was ripping through the nation faster than our Internet connections.

The whole US of A wanted this, and we got it.

Life: Ammah, the hugging saint

This must be the summer of the retreat. I've already had a series of seriously intense adventures this season, that have rocked my world. Each one of them. I'll write about more of them here.

I wrote about the yoga one already, right? Yeah. That stuck with me. Still is a big part of my life. I spend most of my week in downward dog now and it's been awesome. It's introduced me to a whole new community where I live, and exposed me to some great new outlooks on life, and stuff. I feel pretty good with it, at it, in it. I think it's a good fit for me. And, I love my new yoga mat which I got at Jumakti in Union Square.

By the way, after my class one afternoon at Jumakti, I took my teacher's suggestion to heart, and went to see Ammah (spelling?), the hugging saint (accurate?) who was visiting our lovely city. I was really blown away by that. Not so much by the woman herself, but by the experience.

I don't know what I was expecting. It was nearly 10PM, and I knew I had a train to catch, so I didn't plan to stay that long. I figured I'd jump in, get my hug, and skip out of there. But when I arrived, the first thing I noticed was how commercialized the whole thing was! Ammah (which means, mother) was on a stage, with a long, long line of people waiting to receive their hug from her. But before you could even reach the stage, you had to pass by tables and tables of ridiculous product placements with her face on it. Buy Ammah on your dish towel! Your ashtray! Your boxers! OK, OK, maybe not that bad. But still, for a super spiritual experience, I was really surprised to see it so object-oriented.

I nearly figured out a way to skip the line and jump right on stage, but then I felt guilty. There were so many little Indian women with bowls of rose petals on their laps, waiting patiently for their hug. I watched on the jumbo-tron screen above my head as Ammah embraced person after person, their faces nuzzled into her bosom, their heads then bent in grateful prayer.

I asked one of the helpers what it would take to wait in line. She told me that most people got here very early to receive their ticket (like, 9AM early). But if I was willing to wait another 5 hours, I could get a hug too.

Wow.

For a hug?

Maybe it's the practical Jew in me, but all I could think was, "People! If you want a hug so bad, I'll give you one! For free!"

But, I get it. I get it. She's special. And super holy. And has a lifetime of miracles to back her up. Me, I've got a BFA and a Honda.

Tough call, I know.

Funnyness: Jake and Amir

I cannot emphasize enough how enthusiastic I am about Jake and Amir. I've been wanting to write about this comedic discovery, but I guess I was too busy laughing and forwarding their videos to my sister.

J + A are two guys who work for CollegeHumor.com and are, in a plural word, comedians. They write, act, direct, edit, produce, and so on.

They started putting these little videos together called, "Jake and Amir" in which they play characters with the same names, and with everything or nothing to do at all with their own personalities. I think that's the whole point. You want to believe they are playing themselves, but it's pretty safe to say these characters are more of a conglomerate of many personality types. Particularly the insecure ones.

But I am so over analyzing this. Forgive me, it's just hard to explain their shtick to you. It speaks better for itself, on it's own terms. So I shall give you a tour.

First, you'll want to check out the Jake and Amir homepage, and watch "the best of the best". The top videos. This will give you a great sense of what we're dealing with here.
http://www.jakeandamir.com/post/2336490

If you're a vimeo fan, then subscribe to their channels, so you'll always be alerted to new stuff.
Amir: http://www.vimeo.com/Amir
Jake: http://www.vimeo.com/jakeh

Past that, just keep your eyes and ears open, because these boys are going to do very well for themselves. What makes me so happy, is this stuff just keeps coming out of them. I really liked Clark and Michael, a LOT, and it was too bad that it ended. But this new duo just keeps on producing. It's like their brains can't stop. I like people whose brains can't stop.

I showed it to a friend of mine, and he said he thought Jake had it harder than Amir, as an actor. Because Amir gets to be a lunatic and bust out with whatever comes to mind, but the Jake character has to stay composed. And, he has to stay on his toes to catch anything that Amir throws at him. Actually, I've always thought the Amir character reminds me of a girl version of Trudy Weigel on Reno 911.

What I'd really like to say is, at the end of a long day, to come home and see my little igoogle app alerting me to a newly posted Jake + Amir video, is one of the highlights of my virtual day. I freaking love their shit. They're hysterical, adorable, they make me laugh, and plus I feel inspired to do more of my own stuff.

So, if you boys google yourselves, and find this, THANKS for the laughs.

Artist: Sarah Walker

Sarah Walker's paintings, now showing at PIEROGI gallery in Brooklyn, are a mind bender. You don't simply see her paintings, you enter them. They seem like a vision of what the eyes sees before it registers what it is. Her images, though abstract, seem familiar. I can look at one and think that I see a cabin in a woods, the sky between the trees, an ethernet, a web. But the image she has created is more complex than that, more puzzling, more advanced than a simple representation of a thing.

Her technique is a series of layering, overlapping, deleting, rubbing and revealing. There is a sense of archival to her paintings, which you understand when you peer up close (which you must do, and are compelled to do). It's like some areas of paint are preserved on purpose, while others are deleted in an attempt to unveil their residue below. You can like one painting more than another, with no real ability to discern why. You can be drawn to one, and unaffected by another, yet the content is the same. Colors can be deceiving, shapes can transform before you.

The canvases in the gallery are embraced by simple white planks of wood nailed into the walls. It is all white, save for her work. It is simple vs. chaos. There is order, and there is nothing.

Pierogi website
Sarah Walker website

People: Jay Z

I saw Jay Z walking around the LES, talking on his cell phone. I almost didn't think it was him because he seemed so un-bling. Just a guy, wearing a black track suit, walking down the street. But I'd know that face anywhere.

Cruisin down the westside (high, way)
Doing what we like to do (our, way)
Eyes behind shades, this necklace the reason
all of my dates been blind dates
But today, I got my thoroughest girl wit me
I'm mashin the gas, she's grabbin the wheel, it's true to the heart
She rides with me - the new Bobby and Whitney
Only time we don't speak is during "Sex and the City"
She gets Carrie fever, but soon as the show is over
She's right back to being my soldier

Authors: Jonathan Safran Foer

I was supposed to go to a literary event in my town tonight. But plans changed, and at the last minute I found myself back in the car, heading over the GW for a different literary event at BN on 66.

Tonight, Jonathan Safran Foer (my favorite writer as you know, second to my other favorite writer, Nicole Kraus) was introducing/interviewing/supporting another writer named Howard Jacobson. Foer is a 30-something, Brooklyn-dwelling, shaggy haired, bespeckled writer with an incredible talent and a very rich agent. His books are personal, Jewish, pondering, painful, and hysterical. Jacobson is a much older, just as funny, just as Jewish, introspective, intelligent writer from England.

I escalated all the way up to the top floor of the bookstore to grab a hot chocolate before the talk began. I had Foer's book in my bag -- the final novel I bought in Italy during my last lonely but powerful days in Florence. I devoured this book while traveling, and embraced it like a companion.

Standing in line, waiting for my drink to arrive, I suddenly noticed Foer amongst the group of patrons, talking with a friend. I knew it was him immediately. At first my mouth broke into a huge grin, and then I quickly looked away. It was almost odd. I think the gleam of seeing one of your "favorites" becomes tarnished when you see them standing in the same consumer line you are in, simply a pedestrian waiting for coffee.

I wanted to hand him my book. I want to say something. I wanted to ignore him, or call his name, or pretend I didn't notice, or smile in his direction. But, I did nothing. The line passed by me. Because of some confusion behind the counter, people's drinks were coming out before mine and I was left standing to the side watching confused cashiers try to untangle the mess of lattes and skim milks. I was in no rush. With each drink that was handed out, Foer and his friend stepped closer to the front.

And, as fate would have it (can you call it fate?), eventually he was standing next to me, and we were reaching for our hot beverages at the same time. I seized the moment.

"Forgive me for becoming a dork," I said, with a smile, "but I am a huge fan of your work." I didn't introduce myself. I didn't acknowledge him by name. I just, spoke, before I could loose the nerve, here, in the line for coffee.

He smiled, and thanked me kindly. He looked like such a modest man. Somewhat reserved, not as rambunctious as the characters he writes about. "I just loved your book so much, it meant so much to me," I said, words bumping against one another. He told me quickly that I should come to the talk downstairs so I would meet a different writer who was really great. "I know!" I said, "That's why I'm here." And then I added, "And please, tell your wife, if you don't mind, that her book, Man Walks Into A Room, just moved me so much. I mean, I just loved it so much." He said, "I'll tell her." That was it, and I turned away.

I headed down the stairs, boasting with excitement. I took a seat with the 50 or so people who had filled the room for the talk. When it began, Foer started with an introduction of Jacobson and his new book, Kalooki Nights, which couldn't have been a more effusive, hilarious and gushing pronouncement. It was honorable praise, one I imagine an author could wait a lifetime hoping to hear. Genuine reverence is hard to come by these days.

Jacobson was a delight to listen to, and I got the sense that if I were up to date on the English Jewish writer's scene, I would be falling over myself to make his acquaintance. He read a few excerpts from his book, talked excessively and poignantly about the Jewish persona and the valour of comedy (his true religion, he said). He was even bold enough to take a question from someone who asked, "When did anti-semitism against Jews begin?" Jacobson fell back into his chair and inhaled his gasp. "Could you ask me a heavier question please?" he asked. The audience laughed with empathy. It was an interesting moment because so much of their discourse seemed structured around the assumption that everyone in the audience was a bonafied kvetcher, a Hebrew school drop out, a shayna punim. After all, it was the upper west side. But apparently that wasn't the case, and the man who asked the question seemed bewildered by everything that was so nonchalantly being said about Jewish existence that evening. The room was filled with subtle references and innuendos that only a card-carrying member of the tribe had the luxury of taking for granted. But Jacobson answered the question slowly, thoughtfully, and at times, perversely. There were more sex jokes thrown around than kugel references.

After the talk, the lined formed for autographs. I picked up Jacobson's book, and once I saw others do the same, pulled out my copy of Foer's book that had been touched by the Tuscan sun.
When I reached the table, I said hello again to Foer, and handed him my book. He commented on the origin of my name, and then signed the inside cover, personalizing his signature and writing the letters of my name with a curvaceous flair. I told him to look at the back so he could see the Italia sticker marking the geographic source of its purchase. "It even has the European cover," I pointed out. I couldn't have been more excited, more filled with gratitude for this moment. It felt like it all had come full circle.

July. I remember holding the book tightly, reading it under the pink shadows of the Duomo and under the stern glares of Medusa's head in Piazza Signoria. I remember clutching it on the plane as we took off, heading back to the States, the threatening rumble of jet engines below my feet. Who would have known that 4 months later the book would be in the hands of the person who had written it, inscribing his name below the title? And then, with a twist of the pen, my own name would appear, like a final stamp of declaration that this story, my story, had really occurred.

Artist: Ansel Adams

Just discovered a great article on the AP wire about Ansel Adams. There's been a recent discovery of some photographs of his that most likely were never entended for public viewing. But, now they've been revealed as "proofs" of images he was planning on photographing. Sketch-photos, if you will.

Everyone loves something behind-the-scenes. Famous, heroic artists like Adams are normally preserved under bright lights beneath big museum names. But it's rare that we get the chance to see them as human, experimenting, messing around with ideas.

"Adams' prints are perfection," exhibit curator Stephen Jareckie said. "But these proofs have a certain vitality that you don't find in a finished print. It gives them an educational point of view and shows the public what Adams' work is like at that stage — a work in progress."

Do you think Adams would have been cool with this? If you became a famous artist, revered by the billions, would you want a sketchbook of your ideas released to the public?

William Turnage, one of three Adams' trustees [said]. "I think it's unethical in terms of museum ethics and behavior. It's something that never would be done at MoMA or the Art Institute of Chicago. ...But you know, what the heck? Some people are going to take advantage and try to profiteer, and there's nothing we can do about it."

Ethical or not, what can we learn from this? That everything we make is about process, that nothing just appears as it is, and images take time to unfold. Artists think, and they plan, or they plan not to think. Either way, it's process.

"The more we find out about artists, the better perception we have of their life," Pendergraft said. "This gives us a better feel for Ansel Adams and some of his travels through the country that we didn't realize he had been in. It fills in some of the blanks and will give the visitor here a whole new perception of who he was and how he took photographs."

Source

Artist: Jeff Scher

Ohhh, goodness. What a discovery.

I love learning about a new artist whose work just makes me want to stop everything and start creating immediately.

Today I discovered Jeff Scher, who has a blog on the New York Times website. His bio says that he is "a painter who makes experimental films and an experimental filmmaker who paints." I like that. I like using the word "experimental" in a description about yourself, and I like the idea of presenting an identity that is a dichotomy of sorts. I don't think that artists should be able to define themselves too clearly. Kind of reminds me of that show tune lyric, "you gotta get a gimmick, if you wanna to get ahead."

I did some research into his work, and learned this on zanimation.tv:

Scher gave up his pre-med studies for film while at Bard College in the mid-1970s. He still makes use of rotoscoping, an old animation technique in which film frames are blown up and traced individually onto animation cels. In Scher's case, he painstakingly hand paints and shoots each frame of film, sometimes substituting clay, paper models or found materials for his paintings.

His work is sooooooo(etc.) moving. I'm especially recommending that you take a moment out of your busy day to watch his short animation, "You Won't Remember This." The title, the imagery, the movement, the music, is just so tender and precious.

I'm so in awe by this, as I usually am by animators, because I feel like the idea of capturing life frame by frame, light by light, is so awesome (and I mean that in the truest sense of the word). It's life in slow motion, then sped up again, but with an acute appreciation for how all our subtle nuances come together to create the big picture.

I'm really inspired by this.

--> His NYT blog, "The Animated Life"
--> His official website
--> "You Won't Remember This" - Film

News: A Mock Columnist, Amok

A Mock Columnist, Amok

By MAUREEN DOWD

I was in my office, writing a column on the injustice of relative marginal tax rates for hedge fund managers, when I saw Stephen Colbert on TV.

He was sneering that Times columns make good “kindling.” He was ranting that after you throw away the paper, “it takes over a hundred years for the lies to biodegrade.” He was observing, approvingly, that “Dick Cheney’s fondest pipe dream is driving a bulldozer into The New York Times while drinking crude oil out of Keith Olbermann’s skull.”

I called Colbert with a dare: if he thought it was so easy to be a Times Op-Ed pundit, he should try it. He came right over. In a moment of weakness, I had staged a coup d’moi. I just hope he leaves at some point. He’s typing and drinking and threatening to “shave Paul Krugman with a broken bottle.”

I Am an Op-Ed Columnist (And So Can You!)

By STEPHEN COLBERT

Surprised to see my byline here, aren’t you? I would be too, if I read The New York Times. But I don’t. So I’ll just have to take your word that this was published. Frankly, I prefer emoticons to the written word, and if you disagree :(

I’d like to thank Maureen Dowd for permitting/begging me to write her column today. As I type this, she’s watching from an overstuffed divan, petting her prize Abyssinian and sipping a Dirty Cosmotinijito. Which reminds me: Before I get started, I have to take care of one other bit of business:

Bad things are happening in countries you shouldn’t have to think about. It’s all George Bush’s fault, the vice president is Satan, and God is gay.

There. Now I’ve written Frank Rich’s column too.

So why I am writing Miss Dowd’s column today? Simple. Because I believe the 2008 election, unlike all previous elections, is important. And a lot of Americans feel confused about the current crop of presidential candidates.

For instance, Hillary Clinton. I can’t remember if I’m supposed to be scared of her so Democrats will think they should nominate her when she’s actually easy to beat, or if I’m supposed to be scared of her because she’s legitimately scary.

Or Rudy Giuliani. I can’t remember if I’m supposed to support him because he’s the one who can beat Hillary if she gets nominated, or if I’m supposed to support him because he’s legitimately scary.

And Fred Thompson. In my opinion “Law & Order” never sufficiently explained why the Manhattan D.A. had an accent like an Appalachian catfish wrestler.

Well, suddenly an option is looming on the horizon. And I don’t mean Al Gore (though he’s a world-class loomer). First of all, I don’t think Nobel Prizes should go to people I was seated next to at the Emmys. Second, winning the Nobel Prize does not automatically qualify you to be commander in chief. I think George Bush has proved definitively that to be president, you don’t need to care about science, literature or peace.

While my hat is not presently in the ring, I should also point out that it is not on my head. So where’s that hat? (Hint: John McCain was seen passing one at a gas station to fuel up the Straight Talk Express.)

Others point to my new bestseller, “I Am America (And So Can You!)” noting that many candidates test the waters with a book first. Just look at Barack Obama, John Edwards or O. J. Simpson.

Look at the moral guidance I offer. On faith: “After Jesus was born, the Old Testament basically became a way for Bible publishers to keep their word count up.” On gender: “The sooner we accept the basic differences between men and women, the sooner we can stop arguing about it and start having sex.” On race: “While skin and race are often synonymous, skin cleansing is good, race cleansing is bad.” On the elderly: “They look like lizards.”

Our nation is at a Fork in the Road. Some say we should go Left; some say go Right. I say, “Doesn’t this thing have a reverse gear?” Let’s back this country up to a time before there were forks in the road — or even roads. Or forks, for that matter. I want to return to a simpler America where we ate our meat off the end of a sharpened stick.

Let me regurgitate: I know why you want me to run, and I hear your clamor. I share Americans’ nostalgia for an era when you not only could tell a man by the cut of his jib, but the jib industry hadn’t yet fled to Guangdong. And I don’t intend to tease you for weeks the way Newt Gingrich did, saying that if his supporters raised $30 million, he would run for president. I would run for 15 million. Cash.

Nevertheless, I am not ready to announce yet — even though it’s clear that the voters are desperate for a white, male, middle-aged, Jesus-trumpeting alternative.

What do I offer? Hope for the common man. Because I am not the Anointed or the Inevitable. I am just an Average Joe like you — if you have a TV show.

October 14th, 2007
The New York Times

News: Congratulations Sis!

29:54
29:54
29:54
29:54
29:54
29:54
29:54
29:54

Video: Impossible is the Opposite of Possible

TV: All hail the hoodie

It's the year of the dork. The era of the dweeb. The rise of the underdog. Young, self-declared heroes with a dry sense of humor and intelligent candor that you want to believe is as brilliant in real life as it is in the movies. What separates them from the popular kids on the block is their understanding that cool is fleeting, but wit is forever.

Here are the boys with whom you should have shared a lunch table with, afterall:


TV Show: CLARK AND MICHAEL

Michael Cera (left in photo) is the unbelievably lovable hero of SUPERBAD. His buddy Clark makes a (brief) appearance in the movie, but mostly he'll be known for his dorky persona in the new ABC Family show, GREEK (which stars another up and coming dork, Jacob Zachar). The two of them made a few funny movies together (10 minutes each), that CBS (weirdly enough) picked up and put on a website in a ten episode, web-only format. It's maddeningly funny and totally worth your time to watch.
Here: www.clarkandmichael.com

TV Show: Freaks & Greeks

In my opinion, this is one of the best shows to EVER be on television. It's the boy version of My So Called Life. Less mellow-dramatic, more funny, but just as endearing. It's brilliant writing with a brilliant cast and worth the DVD purchase (your welcome, Sis). It's another one of those great moments in television that was axed by the network because no one was watching it. The one-season-only program stars John Francis Daley, who, lucky for you, also makes an appearance in CLARK AND MICHAEL. Daley is another endearing dork, who has grown, like, 5 feet since Freaks & Geeks first aired, potentially threatening his dorky title.

Jonah Hill

Also a SUPERBAD front runner, this guy is clearly super smart and out of his mind. He's too funny for the page. But something tells me if he lost the weight, he'd reveal a debonair charm that would land him in a few Tiger Beats. Oh, and he also shows up in CLARK AND MICHAEL as another aspiring writer who is very unimpressed with the awkward Clark and Michael characters.

Adam Samburg

When did dorkiness become something to aspire to? Probably for boy-men like this it meant more time in the principals office than the prom. But something happened in show business. Someone finally took the memo that women already know that the Carey Grants of the world aren't the most interesting conversationalists/attentive caregivers/loyalists, after all.

Luckily, this guy is a lot older than the others in the lot, so it's not illegal to lust after him. He's got that ridiculous grin and comic timing that originally paved the road for his predecessors (Jimmy Fallon, Adam Sandler, Mike Meyers, et al). Now he's in charge, and probably will be for a long time. He shows up on the SNL set every week, in case you're wondering how he hit the big time.

John Krasinski

Oh, OK, so I get it. I get it now. The road to dorkiness begins with being the guy who falls for the girl, but doesn't know how to tell her. And probably won't until season three. Women are so done with the macho man who can walk up to a lady and woo her with a three-word sentence that includes at least one use of the word "baby". No, those days are over. Brad Pitt? He's unreachable. John Krasinki? He's the one you never even noticed. Until he got a hit TV show and you realized that stuttering and excessive blinking are sure signs of a guy with potential.



Have a nice day.

Movie: Running On Empty

I was in my freshman dorm room, on the third floor. It was probably November 1, and Fall was setting in. It was late at night, and the window showed a black sky.

The message machine was blinking, and it was my mother's voice on the other end. "You need to call me," she said. Something sounded bad. I knew that tone.

I called home immediately, and my mother and my sister got on the line at the same time. "You need to sit down for this," my mother said.

"Why?"

"Really, sit," said my sister. So I sat.

"What happened?" I said, my heart beat quickening.

She paused. "River Phoenix died last night."

I'm sure they expected me to throw myself against my bed in convulsions, but to be honest, I was so relieved. The tension on the phone was so high I was certain they were going to tell me something had happened to my grandmother. So in that brief moment, I was at least able to tell the difference between the emotional reaction you access for the death of a loved one, and that reserved for the death of a celebrity.

However, at that time of my life, and for many years prior... many... I did love River Phoenix. I had his picture, torn out from magazines, all around my mirror. I read anything I could on him. Paparazzi then was an inch of what it is today, but I'm sure youtube would have gone crazy with cell phone footage that people would have of his death outside the Viper Room. But the famous story is that two photographers who were there actually held back from photographing him, out of respect, and tried to help instead by calling 911.

Last night I watched one of my favorite childhood movies, Running On Empty. To this day, I think this is absolutely one of the most beautiful films ever. I remember being profoundly affected by it in my teenage years. Who knew boys could be that sensitive! Movies in the 80's weren't always this character-driven, thoughtful, and quiet.

Because of this movie, I have always had a soft-spot for "Fire and Rain", the James Taylor song they all sing together in the kitchen. River acted with such tenderness and authenticity in all of his films, and especially this one. You can see his thoughts flash before his eyes, and emotions conveyed simply in the way he moves his hands. He is/was brilliant. Martha Plimpton was wonderful in this film too. They don't make young actresses like they used to.

Some things of note: The film was written by Jake and Maggie Gyllenhaal's mother. I had no idea! And, it was filmed entirely in New Jersey. Who knew.

People: Garrison Keillor

I have to tell you...

A Plan to Save the Country
by Garrison Keillor

It's the best part of summer, the long, lovely passage into fall. A procession of lazy, golden days that my sandy-haired, gap-toothed little girl has been painting, small abstract masterpieces in tempera and crayon and glitter, reminiscent of Franz Kline or Willem de Kooning (his early glitter period). She put a sign out front, "Art for Sale," and charged 25 cents per painting. Cheap at the price.

A teacher gave her this freedom to sit un-self-consciously and put paint on paper. A gentle, 6-foot-8 guy named Matt who taught art at her preschool. Her swimming teachers gave her freedom from fear of water. So much that has made this summer a pleasure for her I trace to specific teachers, and so it's painful to hear about public education sinking all around us.

A high school math class of 42! Everybody knows you can't teach math to 42 kids at once. The classroom smells bad because the custodial staff has been cut back. The teacher must whip his pupils into shape to pass the federal No Child Left Untested program. This is insanity, the legacy of Republicans and their tax-cutting and their hostility to secular institutions.

Last spring, I taught a college writing course and had the privilege of hanging out with people in their early 20s, an inspirational experience in return for which I tried to harass them about spelling and grammar and structure. My interest in being 21 again is less than my interest in having a frontal lobotomy, but the wit and passion and good-heartedness of these kids, which they try to conceal under their exquisite cool, are the hope of this country. You have to advocate for young people, or else what are we here for?

I keep running into retirees in their mid-50s, free to collect seashells and write bad poetry and shoot video of the Grand Canyon, and goody for them, but they're not the future. My college kids are graduating with a 20-pound ball of debt chained to their ankles. That's not right, and you know it.

This country is squashing its young. We're sending them to die in a war we don't believe in anymore. We're cheating them so we can offer tax relief to the rich. And we're stealing from them so that old gaffers like me, who want to live forever, can go in for an MRI if we have a headache.

A society that pays for MRIs for headaches and can't pay teachers a decent wage has made a dreadful choice. But health care costs are ballooning, eating away at the economy. The boomers are getting to an age where their knees need replacing and their hearts need a quadruple bypass - which they feel entitled to - but our children aren't entitled to a damn thing.

Any goombah with a Ph.D. in education can strip away French and German, music and art, dumb down the social sciences, offer Britney Spears instead of Shakespeare, and there is nothing the kid can do except hang out in the library, which is being cut back too.

This week, we mark the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and the Current Occupant's line, "You're doing a heckuva job," which already is in common usage, a joke, a euphemism for utter ineptitude. It's sure to wind up in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, a summation of his occupancy.

Annual interest on the national debt now exceeds all government welfare programs combined. We'll be in Iraq for years to come. Hard choices need to be made, and given the situation we're in, I think we must bite the bullet and say no more health care for card-carrying Republicans. It just doesn't make sense to invest in longevity for people who don't believe in the future. Let them try faith-based medicine, let them pray for their arteries to be reamed and their hips to be restored, and leave science to the rest of us.

Cutting out health care to one-third of the population - the folks with Bush-Cheney bumper stickers, who still believe the man is doing a heckuva job - will save enough money to pay off the national debt, not a bad legacy for Republicans. As Scrooge said, let them die and reduce the surplus population. In return, we can offer them a reduction in the estate tax. All in favor, blow your nose.

-----------------------------------------

Published on Thursday, August 31, 2006
Copyright © 2006, The Baltimore Sun

People: Dane Cook

Dane Cook makes me laugh so hard that I fall out of my chair with tears in my eyes.

I discovered him accidentally, and got hooked immediately. I watched his HBO documentary-style TV show this summer. I've listened to mp3's from his two albums, and burned copies of them to CD for my friends. "I have to tell you," I told them, "This is the funniest comedian I have ever heard."

Last night I saw his new HBO special. An hour-and-a-half of all new material; a brilliant A-Z of love and life. It was a first for this style of comedy: The theater was "in the round" which required him to walk in a circle the whole time, addressing each side, running through the crowds, cameras chasing him at all angles.

It was an interesting concept. But the truth is, he doesn't need all the flash. He could stand in a garbage can with a hairbrush as his mircrophone, and a crowd of thousands would have to stop and listen.

Do what you got to do to get to hear him.