“We’re down to one bag of trash a month,” dear friend Katherine proclaimed proudly.
One bag a month, I thought. One bag a week would have impressed me, but one bag a month? That seems almost impossible, unless you reside on the space station, where I imagine trash pick-up is really limited.
Katherine went on to explain the seven kinds of recycling accepted in her town in a conversation that only two dear friends could have without feeling really bored. By now I was really jealous, though I perked up a bit when she admitted they still have a problem with overuse of paper towels. She assured me, however, that she really is using those ShamWows we bought and shared (and no, ShamWow is not one of the people on “Jersey Shore.”). They use cloth napkins (I could do that, I think), and run the dishwasher often. Mine runs about once a quarter, so at least I’m ahead on the lowering of energy consumption (as if this were a competition).
She also composts all her vegetable scraps and has a sizable garden, affording her family of four the opportunity to eat whatever tomatoes, zucchini, potatoes, etc., the rabbits and other wildlife haven’t plundered before harvest. That means not only better quality and more fresh veggies are consumed at her house than at mine, but also that she doesn’t have to deal with all the plastic bags and wrapping in which we tote home our produce. She always uses her own bags at the supermarket and has for years, even before it became fashionable to do so. I do this about half the time, when I remember to bring them in from the car. Once I had my own bags on my arm while shopping and still forgot to bag in them since I was apparently so transfixed by watching the cash register while checking out.
This leaves me with one question: How can one person produce all this trash?
As a consumer of many kinds of goods, I always have to contend with packaging materials. There is that hideous plastic that imprisons my memory sticks for my computer and memory cards for my camera, all 10 times the size of the product they encase, and all of which are lethally sharp as I cut them with my utility knife to wrestle out the contents. Then there is food packaging – huge boxes in which much less cereal resides than it would appear and boxes that contain individual packets of cookies or other snacks. There are the Styrofoam cartons for the eggs, foam trays beneath the meat and chicken, the little plastic cups for my cling peaches, and, of course, all those shiny packets that house my beloved Bumble Bee Tuna.
Sunday and Wednesday nights I haul the trash out in my trash can, placing it at the curb with my secret trash code visible from my front door. Code, you wonder? What is a trash code? I always take the red draw string from the big black bag (into which I place the smaller white bag) and put it outside the lid of the garbage can. That way I can tell at a glance whether the garbage has been picked up and I need to go out and retrieve the can. Believe me, in the winter, this clever trick has helped me avoid many a possible slip on the icy driveway.
Not that I don’t try to be good. I dutifully recycle my cardboard, remove the labels from my cans and bottles (more trash just from the labels), collect all the magazine inserts and junk mail and neatly tie my newspapers into bundles. (My sister, once observing the latter ritual, inquired as to whether I was recycling or gift wrapping the newspapers.) I broke down so many cardboard cartons when I moved into this house that I ended up at the orthopedist with carpal tunnel in both wrists (His advice? Don’t move again.). If I use a paper towel for a quick wipe of something (like cleaning my glasses), I’ll let it dry and reuse it for something else. I refuse bags from the store if the item is small and fits in my purse. I reuse my plastic bags, lining the garbage pails in the bathrooms and bedrooms with the grocery ones and reserving the larger ones (mostly from Kohl’s or Macy’s) for my shredded paper. If my take-out or doggie bags are aluminum pans, I wash them and reuse them for leftovers. In my town, you can’t recycle your cereal or pizza boxes or the plastic from the salad bar containers, so I feel like I am doing all I can.
Or am I?
Maybe if I consume less – buy less stuff that I probably don’t need anyway, eat less (my docs would be happy) and just try not to get all caught up in trash, I’d actually have less to toss. I’ll try the cloth napkin route and use the ShamWows more to clean up after meals to cut down on the paper towels. If I cook more and have less takeout I’ll probably come out ahead in several ways.
But one bag of trash a month? It’s only a dream for me.
Stay tuned for next month, when I consider this burning question: How can one person produce this much laundry?
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Tina's June Movies
Not a great month for movies, but I did get to the theater to see Sex and the City. Here's what I watched in June, with numbering picked up from the rest of the year.
June
63. Bringing Down the House (TV) – After a very busy and exhausting day, this Steve Martin-Queen Latifah comedy was just what I needed to relax. A fish-out-of-water tale of rich versus poor, white vs. black and uptight vs. spontaneous, this movie has many funny moments, none funnier than Steve Martin going gansta in a club. Eugene Levy almost steals the movie as well as the heart of the Queen, who, by the way, shows great potential as an actress. Very cute, and Betty White to boot. 3½ cans.
64. Second Hand Lions (rental) – Recommended by pool pal Bunny, this film is about two crusty old men (Robert Duvall and Michael Caine, sans English accent) living alone in a dilapidated house in Texas, content to welcome uninvited guests with shotgun blasts. When their previously unknown young nephew (Haley Joel Osment) is dumped on their door by his ne’er-do-well mother, the quiet youngster and eccentric old men develop the kind of predictable bond you expect in this kind of movie. Nonetheless, there is enough funny and heart-warming stuff to make viewing this film highly worthwhile. 3½ cans.
65. The Ugly Truth (rental) – The ugly truth is that Hollywood is bound and determined to make Katherine Heigl the next Goldie Hawn-Meg Ryan-Sandra Bullock rom-com queen, but this movie doesn’t quite get her to the throne. She has the right qualities but not as yet the right vehicle. Predictable in plot and annoying in making a competent woman into a ditzy idiot. 2½ cans.
66. A Perfect Murder (TV) – Michael Douglas is at his Gordon Gekko best as a wealthy businessman who hires his wife’s lover (Gwyneth Paltrow and Viggo Mortenson) to kill her. Is it for her family’s money? Will lover-boy, with a rather shady past, complete the mission made possible by Douglas? Does anyone in New York really live in an apartment that big? Suspenseful and with enough twists and turns to keep it very interesting. 4 cans.
67. Fame (rental) – A remake of the 1980s movie, this version lacks the exuberance and jaw-dropping talent displayed by the original cast (particularly by the late dancer Gene Anthony). Lots of familiar names among the faculty (Debbie Allen, Kelsey Grammer, Bebe Neuwirth, Megan Mulally) but they have little to contribute. The young dancers, filmmakers, singers and dancers are more aspiring than inspiring. Maybe on its own this movie would fare better, but I kept comparing it to its much superior predecessor. This one will not live forever. 3 cans.
68. Smash His Camera (TV) – Speaking of fame, this documentary captures the original paparazzo, Ron Galella, who made his reputation by stalking and shooting his celebrity prey – especially Jackie Kennedy (whose demand prompts the title of the film) – with his ever-present camera. Galella and Jackie had a love-hate relationship. In a creepy way, he adored her, while she hated him (but allegedly kept a stash of magazines in which his pictures of her appeared). Though I deplore his invasion of the privacy of public figures, I couldn’t stop looking at the iconic images of Jackie and her kids and of so many other prominent people he shot in his (and their) heyday. Is it art, photojournalism or simply voyeurism? Or is it working hard to be in the right place at the right time with a camera? 4 cans.
69. Sex & the City (with Andrea) – Sometimes it is best to approach a movie with low expectations so you won’t be disappointed. I had expected this movie to be somewhere between “Ishtar” and “Mamma Mia” and was pleasantly surprised to enjoy it as much as I did. The girls, in full travel regalia – including a hat worn by Carrie Bradshaw that needed its own seat on the plane – are off to Abu Dhabi with their conspicuous consumption and Samantha’s unstoppable sex drive. The latter joke is really beginning to wane, and the overdose of references to menopause and hormones was just that – an overdose. For SATC fans, however, there are healthy doses of Big, Aidan and beefcake – to say nothing of a $22,000 a day hotel suite and the ability to buy shoes for $20 – that make this fantasy worthwhile. 4 cans, surprisingly.
**. It’s Complicated – Since I have already seen this movie once this year, I am not counting it in the total. However, I will point out that I found it well worth seeing a second time, especially with someone who hadn’t seen it yet.
70. June 17, 1994 (ESPN) – On June 17, 1994, Arnold Palmer was playing his last round of competitive golf, President Bill Clinton and a very slim Oprah Winfrey were welcoming soccer teams to the World Cup in Chicago, the New York Rangers were in a tickertape parade in honor of winning the Stanley Cup, and O. J. Simpson was in a white Ford Bronco with pal Al Cowlings, leading L.A. police on a slow-speed chase after being charged with the murder of his wife and her friend. This documentary – with no interviews, no voiceover and only news and sports broadcasts of all of these events – is a compelling reminder of the Simpson circus and how it forever altered coverage of news, blurring it with popular culture and expanding the reign of celebrity. This film is part of ESPN’s outstanding “30 for 30” series of documentaries, hour-long programs made with considerable freedom by a wide range of filmmakers. I have seen almost all of them, but couldn’t decide whether to treat them like actual movies. Since their quality is so high, and since I’d like to recommend them when appropriate, I have decided to include them here. 4 cans.
June
63. Bringing Down the House (TV) – After a very busy and exhausting day, this Steve Martin-Queen Latifah comedy was just what I needed to relax. A fish-out-of-water tale of rich versus poor, white vs. black and uptight vs. spontaneous, this movie has many funny moments, none funnier than Steve Martin going gansta in a club. Eugene Levy almost steals the movie as well as the heart of the Queen, who, by the way, shows great potential as an actress. Very cute, and Betty White to boot. 3½ cans.
64. Second Hand Lions (rental) – Recommended by pool pal Bunny, this film is about two crusty old men (Robert Duvall and Michael Caine, sans English accent) living alone in a dilapidated house in Texas, content to welcome uninvited guests with shotgun blasts. When their previously unknown young nephew (Haley Joel Osment) is dumped on their door by his ne’er-do-well mother, the quiet youngster and eccentric old men develop the kind of predictable bond you expect in this kind of movie. Nonetheless, there is enough funny and heart-warming stuff to make viewing this film highly worthwhile. 3½ cans.
65. The Ugly Truth (rental) – The ugly truth is that Hollywood is bound and determined to make Katherine Heigl the next Goldie Hawn-Meg Ryan-Sandra Bullock rom-com queen, but this movie doesn’t quite get her to the throne. She has the right qualities but not as yet the right vehicle. Predictable in plot and annoying in making a competent woman into a ditzy idiot. 2½ cans.
66. A Perfect Murder (TV) – Michael Douglas is at his Gordon Gekko best as a wealthy businessman who hires his wife’s lover (Gwyneth Paltrow and Viggo Mortenson) to kill her. Is it for her family’s money? Will lover-boy, with a rather shady past, complete the mission made possible by Douglas? Does anyone in New York really live in an apartment that big? Suspenseful and with enough twists and turns to keep it very interesting. 4 cans.
67. Fame (rental) – A remake of the 1980s movie, this version lacks the exuberance and jaw-dropping talent displayed by the original cast (particularly by the late dancer Gene Anthony). Lots of familiar names among the faculty (Debbie Allen, Kelsey Grammer, Bebe Neuwirth, Megan Mulally) but they have little to contribute. The young dancers, filmmakers, singers and dancers are more aspiring than inspiring. Maybe on its own this movie would fare better, but I kept comparing it to its much superior predecessor. This one will not live forever. 3 cans.
68. Smash His Camera (TV) – Speaking of fame, this documentary captures the original paparazzo, Ron Galella, who made his reputation by stalking and shooting his celebrity prey – especially Jackie Kennedy (whose demand prompts the title of the film) – with his ever-present camera. Galella and Jackie had a love-hate relationship. In a creepy way, he adored her, while she hated him (but allegedly kept a stash of magazines in which his pictures of her appeared). Though I deplore his invasion of the privacy of public figures, I couldn’t stop looking at the iconic images of Jackie and her kids and of so many other prominent people he shot in his (and their) heyday. Is it art, photojournalism or simply voyeurism? Or is it working hard to be in the right place at the right time with a camera? 4 cans.
69. Sex & the City (with Andrea) – Sometimes it is best to approach a movie with low expectations so you won’t be disappointed. I had expected this movie to be somewhere between “Ishtar” and “Mamma Mia” and was pleasantly surprised to enjoy it as much as I did. The girls, in full travel regalia – including a hat worn by Carrie Bradshaw that needed its own seat on the plane – are off to Abu Dhabi with their conspicuous consumption and Samantha’s unstoppable sex drive. The latter joke is really beginning to wane, and the overdose of references to menopause and hormones was just that – an overdose. For SATC fans, however, there are healthy doses of Big, Aidan and beefcake – to say nothing of a $22,000 a day hotel suite and the ability to buy shoes for $20 – that make this fantasy worthwhile. 4 cans, surprisingly.
**. It’s Complicated – Since I have already seen this movie once this year, I am not counting it in the total. However, I will point out that I found it well worth seeing a second time, especially with someone who hadn’t seen it yet.
70. June 17, 1994 (ESPN) – On June 17, 1994, Arnold Palmer was playing his last round of competitive golf, President Bill Clinton and a very slim Oprah Winfrey were welcoming soccer teams to the World Cup in Chicago, the New York Rangers were in a tickertape parade in honor of winning the Stanley Cup, and O. J. Simpson was in a white Ford Bronco with pal Al Cowlings, leading L.A. police on a slow-speed chase after being charged with the murder of his wife and her friend. This documentary – with no interviews, no voiceover and only news and sports broadcasts of all of these events – is a compelling reminder of the Simpson circus and how it forever altered coverage of news, blurring it with popular culture and expanding the reign of celebrity. This film is part of ESPN’s outstanding “30 for 30” series of documentaries, hour-long programs made with considerable freedom by a wide range of filmmakers. I have seen almost all of them, but couldn’t decide whether to treat them like actual movies. Since their quality is so high, and since I’d like to recommend them when appropriate, I have decided to include them here. 4 cans.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Nailed - June 2010
It is summer, so in a bow to one of the few girlie things I do (wearing perfume being the most prominent), it’s time for a mani-pedi. Off I go to the nail salon.
Remember back in the day when people had their hair “done” on a weekly basis? My mother made me have mine “done” for my senior picture in high school, and I emerged from the rollers, the rocket ship-looking hair dryer and enough hair spray to seriously damage the ozone layer looking nothing like I actually looked on any given day in high school. I have since been immortalized in the yearbook looking the way my hair looked for three hours on that one day. But I digress. Those were the days when manicurists were all like “Madge” in those Palmolive commercials, the ones where the ladies soaked their hands in Palmolive before Madge would do their nails while they gossiped – in English.
Times have changed.
Madge is long gone, and so, for the most part, are manicurists who work in what we used to call “beauty parlors” (I believe that term had to be dropped right after my hair was “done” for the yearbook picture). We get our nails done at a nail salon, ubiquitous storefront operations that pop up, along with pizza joints, dry cleaners and Chinese take-out places, at virtually any strip mall you can find. At least in New Jersey, that is. The “nail technicians,” if that’s what we can them, all speak English as a second language, and generally work for a woman named Kim. I’m pretty sure that is a legal requirement to own and operate a nail business.
This of course reminds me of the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine was sure the nail technicians were talking about her behind her back but, in this case, in front of her face. And if Elaine were your customer, you’d talk about her, too.
The technicians, upon arriving in this country from wherever they may hail, first learn the most important English phrase in their vocabulary: “Pick a color.” This is the single biggest decision a woman can make. The choice depends on the season, the length of the nails, the age of the person getting them done (I saw a nine-year old having her nails done in a neon lime color the other day), and what we have planned, like matching the nails with a certain outfit. But that is far from the only decision. Should the finger and toenails match? Do we want a French manicure – which I fear will result in boorish behavior on the part of the technician – a gel manicure, acrylics, wraps or nail “art?” The latter consists of using tiny brushes and a million little bottles of color to create anything from a snowman to a flower to a peace sign on the nail to make it, well, artsy, I guess. We can pay extra for a spa manicure, where they apply lotion and massage the feet and hands, or we can add a special topcoat that will protect the nails even longer – even though mine almost always are ruined by the time I turn the key in the ignition of the car as I leave the salon.
I try to do this right, even though my heels hurt as they are massaged because of my plantar fasciitis, and I am ticklish, so touching my feet makes me squirm. I bring my own polish so when my nails chip 10 minutes after I get home I can retouch them. I don’t wear a watch so they can massage my hands and arms. I don the shortest capris I have, which for me is an issue since most just look like shorter long pants on my stubby little legs. I wear my flip flops, which I wear exclusively to get a pedicure, and I put my credit card and money in my pocket so I don’t have to reach into my purse to pay (the second phrase all technicians must learn upon arrival in the U.S. is, “You pay now,” which they remind you after the initial work is done but before the polish is applied).
The whole experience is quite a process, and though we pay for the service, sometimes we forget who is in charge. Once a friend of mine had a manicure and upon leaving, headed straight to another nail joint for a “color change” since she was too embarrassed to admit she hated the color she selected.
Sure, you can do this yourself, and occasionally I try, but the cuticles never cooperate and my left hand isn’t all that helpful when working on my right hand. You can tell I have done it myself when the polish is clear, which usually is meant only to keep them strong enough to last until I can get a manicure.
Between the chlorine in the pool and the ordinary wear and tear on my hands, and not even considering that my nails seem to grow much faster in the summer, my nails will look good for approximately 3 days. After that, the chips appear, the cuticles split, and, let’s face it, I have no future as a hand model. But for those three days, as Shania says, “Man, I feel like a woman.”
Remember back in the day when people had their hair “done” on a weekly basis? My mother made me have mine “done” for my senior picture in high school, and I emerged from the rollers, the rocket ship-looking hair dryer and enough hair spray to seriously damage the ozone layer looking nothing like I actually looked on any given day in high school. I have since been immortalized in the yearbook looking the way my hair looked for three hours on that one day. But I digress. Those were the days when manicurists were all like “Madge” in those Palmolive commercials, the ones where the ladies soaked their hands in Palmolive before Madge would do their nails while they gossiped – in English.
Times have changed.
Madge is long gone, and so, for the most part, are manicurists who work in what we used to call “beauty parlors” (I believe that term had to be dropped right after my hair was “done” for the yearbook picture). We get our nails done at a nail salon, ubiquitous storefront operations that pop up, along with pizza joints, dry cleaners and Chinese take-out places, at virtually any strip mall you can find. At least in New Jersey, that is. The “nail technicians,” if that’s what we can them, all speak English as a second language, and generally work for a woman named Kim. I’m pretty sure that is a legal requirement to own and operate a nail business.
This of course reminds me of the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine was sure the nail technicians were talking about her behind her back but, in this case, in front of her face. And if Elaine were your customer, you’d talk about her, too.
The technicians, upon arriving in this country from wherever they may hail, first learn the most important English phrase in their vocabulary: “Pick a color.” This is the single biggest decision a woman can make. The choice depends on the season, the length of the nails, the age of the person getting them done (I saw a nine-year old having her nails done in a neon lime color the other day), and what we have planned, like matching the nails with a certain outfit. But that is far from the only decision. Should the finger and toenails match? Do we want a French manicure – which I fear will result in boorish behavior on the part of the technician – a gel manicure, acrylics, wraps or nail “art?” The latter consists of using tiny brushes and a million little bottles of color to create anything from a snowman to a flower to a peace sign on the nail to make it, well, artsy, I guess. We can pay extra for a spa manicure, where they apply lotion and massage the feet and hands, or we can add a special topcoat that will protect the nails even longer – even though mine almost always are ruined by the time I turn the key in the ignition of the car as I leave the salon.
I try to do this right, even though my heels hurt as they are massaged because of my plantar fasciitis, and I am ticklish, so touching my feet makes me squirm. I bring my own polish so when my nails chip 10 minutes after I get home I can retouch them. I don’t wear a watch so they can massage my hands and arms. I don the shortest capris I have, which for me is an issue since most just look like shorter long pants on my stubby little legs. I wear my flip flops, which I wear exclusively to get a pedicure, and I put my credit card and money in my pocket so I don’t have to reach into my purse to pay (the second phrase all technicians must learn upon arrival in the U.S. is, “You pay now,” which they remind you after the initial work is done but before the polish is applied).
The whole experience is quite a process, and though we pay for the service, sometimes we forget who is in charge. Once a friend of mine had a manicure and upon leaving, headed straight to another nail joint for a “color change” since she was too embarrassed to admit she hated the color she selected.
Sure, you can do this yourself, and occasionally I try, but the cuticles never cooperate and my left hand isn’t all that helpful when working on my right hand. You can tell I have done it myself when the polish is clear, which usually is meant only to keep them strong enough to last until I can get a manicure.
Between the chlorine in the pool and the ordinary wear and tear on my hands, and not even considering that my nails seem to grow much faster in the summer, my nails will look good for approximately 3 days. After that, the chips appear, the cuticles split, and, let’s face it, I have no future as a hand model. But for those three days, as Shania says, “Man, I feel like a woman.”
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Tina's May Movies - June 2010
It was a good month for documentaries once again, as well as a movie I had never seen ("The Old Man and the Sea" and one I never miss "Rudy." Here's how I spent my time during May:
May
53. Feast of Love (TV) – This movie about relationships stars Morgan Freeman and Greg Kinear, who both bring their considerable charm to a bittersweet tale. The problem is that there is so much foreboding that I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, which affected my enjoyment of the film. This movie is one that I hadn’t even heard of, but I figured anything with Morgan Freeman can’t be all bad. Feast had its moments, but I’m not sure I’d go back for seconds. 3½ cans.
54. The Kid Stays in the Picture (HBO) – Hollywood producer Robert Evans offers a fascinating account of his life that is equal parts biography and bombast. From a successful career in women’s clothing (Evan-Picone, but take that any way you like) to becoming a strictly B actor, he ended up as a producer and the very young head of Paramount Pictures. There he claims credit for saving the ailing studio with such hits as “Rosemary’s Baby,” “Love Story” and “The Godfather.” His meteoric rise was followed by a predictably precipitous fall, as he lost his wife Ali McGraw to hot star Steve McQueen, got busted for drugs, sunk money into the disaster that was “The Cotton Club” and lost his beloved home when his career nosedived. This guy has had more lives than a cat, and he unabashedly shares his triumphs and failures here. 3½ cans.
55. The Cooler (TV) – Bernie, the sad sack played by William H. Macy, is such a loser that his mere presence can cool off anyone’s hot streak in the Vegas casino where he works. That is, until Lady Luck, in the form of a waitress played by Maria Bello, comes along. He gets lucky (take that any way you want), which turns out not to be so lucky for a guy who is paid to be a loser. Casino boss Alec Baldwin runs the casino old school style, which means Bernie’s luck is about to run out. 3½ cans.
56. Days of Wine and Roses (TCM) – This sobering tale about the demons of drinking features Jack Lemmon as a PR man whose life careens between frenetic and pathetic. He and his wife (Lee Remick), who initially drinks only because he doesn’t want to drink alone, descend into the depths of alcoholism. The lesson here: You are only one step away from ruin when drinking dominates your life. On the other hand, you are only 12 steps away from helping yourself once you face up to being an alcoholic. A sad, disturbing and difficult film to watch, but well-played by all, and directed by Blake Edwards, better known more for such frothy fare as “The Pink Panther.” 4 cans.
57. Babies (in Manville with Dee) – Short and very sweet, this unscripted movie documents the birth and growth of four babies from four continents during their first year. Despite immense differences in cultural backgrounds, the babies are all very much the same in their eagerness to explore the world around them, cry for food, laugh at things that amuse them and, generally, act like little babies. Whether it is playing with a rock in Africa or attending a Gymboree-type class in San Francisco, these babies show us the miracle that is life and the wonder of it all. Oooh, baby, baby. 3½ cans.
58. Letters to Juliet (in Hillsborough with Dee and Angela) – I won’t bog you down with the details of this tale of lost love. The movie stars Dakota Fanning look-alike (but older) Amanda Seyfried as engaged yet ringless Sophie, who is to marry would-be restaurateur Victor. On a trip to Italy, Victor spends most of his time visiting his suppliers and exalting the food and wine of Italy, while Sophie gets involved helping Clare, played by the elegant and gracious Vanessa Redgrave, find her long-lost (50 years) love (her actual long-lost love, Franco Nero). Accompanying them is Vanessa’s priggish Brit of a grandson, an actor whose name escapes me and is best forgotten and who bears an uncanny resemblance to the late Heath Ledger but with better enunciation. The story, acting and dialog (which ends with one of the cheesiest lines I have ever heard) are largely forgettable, but if you appreciate the beauty of Italy, the road trip alone is worth seeing. 3 cans, made better with a good bottle of wine and some Italian food.
59. Rudy (TV) – There are scenes in movies that you know are coming (because you’ve seen them before) but they get you anyway. I think of Gregory Peck leaving the courtroom in “To Kill a Mockingbird,” Tim Robbins escaping Shawshank or a smirky Dustin Hoffman at the back of the bus with Elaine in “The Graduate.” “Rudy” is a movie based on a true story of a kid not smart enough to be accepted by Notre Dame and too small to play football there. So, of course, he gets into Notre Dame, ends up on the practice squad and inspires his more athletic teammates. The last game of his senior year is down to the final seconds when the crowd, chanting “Rudy, Rudy,” beseeches the coach to put him in. On his one and only play from scrimmage, he sacks the quarterback and is hoisted up by his teammates and carried off the field, the last player to be so honored at Notre Dame. My throat is getting that giant lump again. It’s a great scene and worth 5 cans on its own, while the movie itself, a bit too long and slow, gets 4 cans.
60. Hotel Gramercy Park (Sundance Channel) – Proving the adage that “everything old is new again,” this documentary takes a look at New York’s once tony but ultimately rundown Gramercy Park Hotel. Owned by the Weissberg family, who lived above the store (so to speak), the hotel was favored by rock stars, artists and an odd collection of people who still reside there full-time. We witness the new owner, hotelier Ian Schrager (the former owner, with partner Steve Rubell, of Studio 54) as he takes the hotel from decrepit to divine, even as the long-time residents are forced to sidestep the ongoing construction and lack of elevators, etc. One unique perk the hotel offers is a private park. Residents actually have keys to open the gates of this Manhattan oasis. Interesting (especially when Schrager goes toe-to-toe with artist Julian Schnabel on design), but too much emphasis on the family and its many problems. After checking this out, I won’t be checking in. 3 cans.
61. The Old Man and the Sea (TCM) – Spencer Tracy stars in this movie about one man, one boat, and one whale of a marlin, bigger than the tiny fishing boat but not bigger than the will of the fisherman. For days and nights, the old man battles the fish, the elements, his bloody, cramping hands and his fatigue before the fish finally succumbs to his will. But sometimes you win the battle and lose the war, as the fisherman soon realizes. Beautifully shot, this film, from the novel by Ernest Hemingway that everyone had to read at some point in school, is a study in man’s determination as well as where we fit in the universe. I think I’ll get my fish from the market. 4 cans.
62. Visual Acoustics (Sundance Channel) – I love photography and admire architecture, and this documentary about renowned architectural photographer Julius Shulman features both. Working with acclaimed architects from Frank Lloyd Wright to Frank Gehry, Shulman documented the modern architecture that largely defined southern California from the 40s on while enhancing the work and acceptance of a myriad of famous architects and others just starting out. A brilliant essay on a man with a clear focus on straight lines, lighting and some of the most spectacular homes in America. This movie won’t appeal to everyone, but it fascinated me. 4 cans.
May
53. Feast of Love (TV) – This movie about relationships stars Morgan Freeman and Greg Kinear, who both bring their considerable charm to a bittersweet tale. The problem is that there is so much foreboding that I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, which affected my enjoyment of the film. This movie is one that I hadn’t even heard of, but I figured anything with Morgan Freeman can’t be all bad. Feast had its moments, but I’m not sure I’d go back for seconds. 3½ cans.
54. The Kid Stays in the Picture (HBO) – Hollywood producer Robert Evans offers a fascinating account of his life that is equal parts biography and bombast. From a successful career in women’s clothing (Evan-Picone, but take that any way you like) to becoming a strictly B actor, he ended up as a producer and the very young head of Paramount Pictures. There he claims credit for saving the ailing studio with such hits as “Rosemary’s Baby,” “Love Story” and “The Godfather.” His meteoric rise was followed by a predictably precipitous fall, as he lost his wife Ali McGraw to hot star Steve McQueen, got busted for drugs, sunk money into the disaster that was “The Cotton Club” and lost his beloved home when his career nosedived. This guy has had more lives than a cat, and he unabashedly shares his triumphs and failures here. 3½ cans.
55. The Cooler (TV) – Bernie, the sad sack played by William H. Macy, is such a loser that his mere presence can cool off anyone’s hot streak in the Vegas casino where he works. That is, until Lady Luck, in the form of a waitress played by Maria Bello, comes along. He gets lucky (take that any way you want), which turns out not to be so lucky for a guy who is paid to be a loser. Casino boss Alec Baldwin runs the casino old school style, which means Bernie’s luck is about to run out. 3½ cans.
56. Days of Wine and Roses (TCM) – This sobering tale about the demons of drinking features Jack Lemmon as a PR man whose life careens between frenetic and pathetic. He and his wife (Lee Remick), who initially drinks only because he doesn’t want to drink alone, descend into the depths of alcoholism. The lesson here: You are only one step away from ruin when drinking dominates your life. On the other hand, you are only 12 steps away from helping yourself once you face up to being an alcoholic. A sad, disturbing and difficult film to watch, but well-played by all, and directed by Blake Edwards, better known more for such frothy fare as “The Pink Panther.” 4 cans.
57. Babies (in Manville with Dee) – Short and very sweet, this unscripted movie documents the birth and growth of four babies from four continents during their first year. Despite immense differences in cultural backgrounds, the babies are all very much the same in their eagerness to explore the world around them, cry for food, laugh at things that amuse them and, generally, act like little babies. Whether it is playing with a rock in Africa or attending a Gymboree-type class in San Francisco, these babies show us the miracle that is life and the wonder of it all. Oooh, baby, baby. 3½ cans.
58. Letters to Juliet (in Hillsborough with Dee and Angela) – I won’t bog you down with the details of this tale of lost love. The movie stars Dakota Fanning look-alike (but older) Amanda Seyfried as engaged yet ringless Sophie, who is to marry would-be restaurateur Victor. On a trip to Italy, Victor spends most of his time visiting his suppliers and exalting the food and wine of Italy, while Sophie gets involved helping Clare, played by the elegant and gracious Vanessa Redgrave, find her long-lost (50 years) love (her actual long-lost love, Franco Nero). Accompanying them is Vanessa’s priggish Brit of a grandson, an actor whose name escapes me and is best forgotten and who bears an uncanny resemblance to the late Heath Ledger but with better enunciation. The story, acting and dialog (which ends with one of the cheesiest lines I have ever heard) are largely forgettable, but if you appreciate the beauty of Italy, the road trip alone is worth seeing. 3 cans, made better with a good bottle of wine and some Italian food.
59. Rudy (TV) – There are scenes in movies that you know are coming (because you’ve seen them before) but they get you anyway. I think of Gregory Peck leaving the courtroom in “To Kill a Mockingbird,” Tim Robbins escaping Shawshank or a smirky Dustin Hoffman at the back of the bus with Elaine in “The Graduate.” “Rudy” is a movie based on a true story of a kid not smart enough to be accepted by Notre Dame and too small to play football there. So, of course, he gets into Notre Dame, ends up on the practice squad and inspires his more athletic teammates. The last game of his senior year is down to the final seconds when the crowd, chanting “Rudy, Rudy,” beseeches the coach to put him in. On his one and only play from scrimmage, he sacks the quarterback and is hoisted up by his teammates and carried off the field, the last player to be so honored at Notre Dame. My throat is getting that giant lump again. It’s a great scene and worth 5 cans on its own, while the movie itself, a bit too long and slow, gets 4 cans.
60. Hotel Gramercy Park (Sundance Channel) – Proving the adage that “everything old is new again,” this documentary takes a look at New York’s once tony but ultimately rundown Gramercy Park Hotel. Owned by the Weissberg family, who lived above the store (so to speak), the hotel was favored by rock stars, artists and an odd collection of people who still reside there full-time. We witness the new owner, hotelier Ian Schrager (the former owner, with partner Steve Rubell, of Studio 54) as he takes the hotel from decrepit to divine, even as the long-time residents are forced to sidestep the ongoing construction and lack of elevators, etc. One unique perk the hotel offers is a private park. Residents actually have keys to open the gates of this Manhattan oasis. Interesting (especially when Schrager goes toe-to-toe with artist Julian Schnabel on design), but too much emphasis on the family and its many problems. After checking this out, I won’t be checking in. 3 cans.
61. The Old Man and the Sea (TCM) – Spencer Tracy stars in this movie about one man, one boat, and one whale of a marlin, bigger than the tiny fishing boat but not bigger than the will of the fisherman. For days and nights, the old man battles the fish, the elements, his bloody, cramping hands and his fatigue before the fish finally succumbs to his will. But sometimes you win the battle and lose the war, as the fisherman soon realizes. Beautifully shot, this film, from the novel by Ernest Hemingway that everyone had to read at some point in school, is a study in man’s determination as well as where we fit in the universe. I think I’ll get my fish from the market. 4 cans.
62. Visual Acoustics (Sundance Channel) – I love photography and admire architecture, and this documentary about renowned architectural photographer Julius Shulman features both. Working with acclaimed architects from Frank Lloyd Wright to Frank Gehry, Shulman documented the modern architecture that largely defined southern California from the 40s on while enhancing the work and acceptance of a myriad of famous architects and others just starting out. A brilliant essay on a man with a clear focus on straight lines, lighting and some of the most spectacular homes in America. This movie won’t appeal to everyone, but it fascinated me. 4 cans.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Lazy Days - May 2010
There is an old saying that goes something like this: “If you have something to do, get a busy person to do it.” I believed in that adage and practiced it as the soul of efficiency when I worked. My days were jam packed with meetings, my nights with errands and my weekends with chores, activities and friends. Though I usually worked late, I could still manage to squeeze in multiple stops on my way home – the supermarket, dry cleaners (that woman has yet to recover from my retirement; she still looks crushed whenever I make one of my infrequent stops there), library, gas station and the like. Once I ran to Macy’s for the first day of the two-day “1 Day Sale” and a button popped off my coat as I was getting out of the car. Knowing I had neither the time nor the skill to sew it back on properly, I simply bought a new coat. As the dark days of winter moved to the bright, sunny days of summer, I would leave work later and later, with my motto being, “It ain’t late if it’s still light.”
Oh, how times have changed.
What I used to squeeze into my ride home now can take a day. While I keep busy with lots of activities, I sometimes have days when I do absolutely nothing, and nobody does nothing better than me. As proof, I recall that many years ago I sprained my ankle and my sister stopped by to see how I was doing. She left and returned a few hours later, only to find me in exactly the same position on the couch. “You look like you haven’t moved since I left,” she commented. “I haven’t,” I admitted.
Unfortunately, on those lazy days, the less I do, the less I do.
There’s nothing in the house to eat, but I’ll have no motivation to get to the supermarket. There’s always tuna fish or an egg, I reason (except today, for example, when the last remaining egg expired two days ago despite its somewhat permanent residency in my fridge). Sometimes even when I do shop, I’ll refuse to go and get one more item because I have already been down that aisle once and I refuse to backtrack.
I never feel like shaving my legs, even though I’m in a bathing suit three days a week for water aerobics class (see, I am busy sometimes). Ah, those people won’t notice, I figure, and besides, how many of them have shaved their legs? And would I have noticed if they didn’t?
My foot doctor told me years ago that treating my plantar fasciitis requires that I stay off my feet, keep my feet up, cut down on shopping, etc. When no real improvement took place, he reiterated his instructions. “Doc,” I told him, “nobody you know stays off their feet more than I do.” I even have matching recliners – one in the family room and one in the bedroom – so my feet stay elevated and I am safely and comfortably lounging for as long as possible.
I believe some of this sloth characteristic must be genetic. My 17-year old soccer-playing nephew can lounge around in his pajamas all day on the couch, playing video games, unwashed and only possibly energetic enough to make a Pop Tart for lunch. I draw the line at that level of inactivity. In my house, I am always showered, dressed and the bed is made immediately when I get up.
I must be making up for lost time, for all those years of frenetic activity, rarely giving anything outside of work its due. Now I can leisurely devote an entire day (and a weekday, at that) to running around with my camera. I can actually read the newspaper on the day it is published, and I can read books before they are due back at the library. I have the chance to watch tons of movies and even exercise my writing muscles by reviewing each of them.
Sure there are days still packed with volunteer activities and appointments, with movies and lunch plans or dinner dates with friends. But, whenever possible, I spread out the activities, so they no longer get clumped together like they did when my time was so limited. I have developed my “The Kitchen Cabinet Theory of Time Management.” Figure it this way: No matter how many cabinets you have in your kitchen, you will always find plenty of stuff to fill them. Metaphorically speaking, whatever you have to do takes up the time in which you have to do it.
I admit to this kind of behavior not to evoke jealousy, as though I have the leisure time you wish you had, though you might take it that way. In fact, this is a therapeutic way for me to admit publicly that I can be a real slug, a trait I find less than desirable. But isn’t admitting it the first step in rehabbing it?
Nonetheless, this weekend we begin those “lazy, hazy, crazy” days of summer, where sloth seems more acceptable, especially if I can persuade friends who are available to join me around the pool. Our biggest decision will be whether to go into the pool or the hot tub, and that suits me just fine. I might even shave my legs. Just don’t look too closely.
Oh, how times have changed.
What I used to squeeze into my ride home now can take a day. While I keep busy with lots of activities, I sometimes have days when I do absolutely nothing, and nobody does nothing better than me. As proof, I recall that many years ago I sprained my ankle and my sister stopped by to see how I was doing. She left and returned a few hours later, only to find me in exactly the same position on the couch. “You look like you haven’t moved since I left,” she commented. “I haven’t,” I admitted.
Unfortunately, on those lazy days, the less I do, the less I do.
There’s nothing in the house to eat, but I’ll have no motivation to get to the supermarket. There’s always tuna fish or an egg, I reason (except today, for example, when the last remaining egg expired two days ago despite its somewhat permanent residency in my fridge). Sometimes even when I do shop, I’ll refuse to go and get one more item because I have already been down that aisle once and I refuse to backtrack.
I never feel like shaving my legs, even though I’m in a bathing suit three days a week for water aerobics class (see, I am busy sometimes). Ah, those people won’t notice, I figure, and besides, how many of them have shaved their legs? And would I have noticed if they didn’t?
My foot doctor told me years ago that treating my plantar fasciitis requires that I stay off my feet, keep my feet up, cut down on shopping, etc. When no real improvement took place, he reiterated his instructions. “Doc,” I told him, “nobody you know stays off their feet more than I do.” I even have matching recliners – one in the family room and one in the bedroom – so my feet stay elevated and I am safely and comfortably lounging for as long as possible.
I believe some of this sloth characteristic must be genetic. My 17-year old soccer-playing nephew can lounge around in his pajamas all day on the couch, playing video games, unwashed and only possibly energetic enough to make a Pop Tart for lunch. I draw the line at that level of inactivity. In my house, I am always showered, dressed and the bed is made immediately when I get up.
I must be making up for lost time, for all those years of frenetic activity, rarely giving anything outside of work its due. Now I can leisurely devote an entire day (and a weekday, at that) to running around with my camera. I can actually read the newspaper on the day it is published, and I can read books before they are due back at the library. I have the chance to watch tons of movies and even exercise my writing muscles by reviewing each of them.
Sure there are days still packed with volunteer activities and appointments, with movies and lunch plans or dinner dates with friends. But, whenever possible, I spread out the activities, so they no longer get clumped together like they did when my time was so limited. I have developed my “The Kitchen Cabinet Theory of Time Management.” Figure it this way: No matter how many cabinets you have in your kitchen, you will always find plenty of stuff to fill them. Metaphorically speaking, whatever you have to do takes up the time in which you have to do it.
I admit to this kind of behavior not to evoke jealousy, as though I have the leisure time you wish you had, though you might take it that way. In fact, this is a therapeutic way for me to admit publicly that I can be a real slug, a trait I find less than desirable. But isn’t admitting it the first step in rehabbing it?
Nonetheless, this weekend we begin those “lazy, hazy, crazy” days of summer, where sloth seems more acceptable, especially if I can persuade friends who are available to join me around the pool. Our biggest decision will be whether to go into the pool or the hot tub, and that suits me just fine. I might even shave my legs. Just don’t look too closely.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)