The Color Pink

Dateline: Tuesday, May 27, 2008. Haulover Beach, Miami, Florida. A singularly beautiful beach with (on this day) rather choppy surf and, except for a couple of distant surfers, I was the only one brave enough (or foolish enough) to go in the water. I should have known better, especially since I was carrying adequate sunblock, but I got a sunburn on my butt. This discomfort probably exacerbated my almost total dislike of a subsequent viewing of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. I can usually check my expectations at the door for movies like this but, hell, boredom pretty much prevailed. It was only the high decibel level on the sound track that kept me awake and squirming in my seat. Well, that and the sunburn.

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This annoys me. I’ve had many occasions to drive, or be driven, to JFK Airport over the last few months and I’m annoyed every time by this “sculpture,” including today when dropping my sis off at JetBlue. About a year ago, or so, I noticed this rather tall, maybe 35 foot, structure being built (created?) at the entrance to JFK. It was in various stages of completion over time and its intent is now obvious. It’s a “sculpture” of a huge hand holding a cellphone. Calling it a sculpture is a reach because it’s really just a big old billboard, albeit in three dimensions. Somehow Samsung has been able to break through the official barrier of otherwise pristine, advertisement free, approaches to practically every airport in the civilized world. I’m sure it’s a coup of the first rank in marketing circles and my question is; how did they do it? And, more importantly in this age of branding every damn thing (including baseball stadiums), what does it bode for the future?

This big old hand thing is not in the least attractive or artistic or even interesting. And it is definitely a distraction for the less-than-careful driver. I would sure like to know the name and e-mail address of the person, or persons, who gave Samsung permission to erect these atrocities. Having knowledge of the deposits made to their individual bank accounts would also be a cool.

A few steps too many...

About three-quarters through the first act of The 39 Steps Richard Hannay, the harassed and harried hero of this spoof of a play, finds himself standing behind a podium, attempting to hide a pair of handcuffs dangling from one wrist, and facing every public speaker’s, and/or actor’s, nightmare. That is, he’s expected to give a speech about something, but does not have the knowledge, the words or even a clue to whom he’s speaking. After several umm’s and ahem’s he brightens up, stares straight out into the audience and forcefully says one word, “Change.” An obvious reference to Barack Obama, it resulted in quite a nice ripple of laughter from the audience.

That moment, however, was the first and only reference to anything current; which is a good thing actually. The 39 Steps is a staged spoof taken directly from the 1935 Alfred Hitchcock movie of the same name with most of the original dialogue; albeit some liberties are taken with quick throwaway references to other Hitchcock movies, including the crop duster sequence from North by Northwest. Maybe this is not such a good thing since these references (Vertigo…oh, c’mon) mostly result in groans of recognition rather than true amusement.

I’m not sure what has happened since the play’s opening night because I went back and checked the New York Times review and it was an unmitigated rave. I think somehow, since then, the performances have been toyed with. There seems to be a lot of unnecessary corny stuff that screws up the momentum of what should be a breakneck, uninterrupted montage of stage (and movie) magic. I could be wrong but I think some of the stage business has been “enhanced” a bit by the actors. Sometimes it works but mostly not. The play should speak for itself and there is plenty of great entertainment to be had if only everything was played straight, without breaking the fourth wall and popping one’s eyes and mugging engagingly at the audience. Overacting has its place, certainly, and can be riotous but not when it’s done for the cheap hoots at the expense of economy and pacing.

This production has been highly touted for its utilization of only four actors. Richard Hannay is played wonderfully by Charles Edwards, who created this role in London two years ago and has a lock on it. He is the only performer to play only one role. Jennifer Ferrin plays three of the female characters (including the first murder victim) and handily charms us in all three. The other two actors, Cliff Saunders and Arnie Burton, play the rest of the characters which number into the scores, including men, women, bogs and bushes that snag the heroine’s clothing whilst our dynamic duo thrash their way thru the fens and heath of Scotland. But there, I’m afraid, is the rub. Although both men are certainly versatile and funny, a number of their touted “variety” of characters pretty much rang the same to my pea brain, thereby engendering confusion more than admiration for their versatility.

During the second act the breakneck pace slowed a bit and the word “tedious” sprang to mind. The final dénouement with the revealing of the meaning of the words “The 39 Steps” worked very well with the exception of the repeated death-throes of the villain. You know, one of those supposedly hilarious instances where someone drops dead only to revive and drop dead again. And again. I felt like shouting, “Oh, get OVER it,” but, being the sensitive theatergoer I am, I just waited until now.

Overall, it was a fun evening of theater, cute and amusing, and that’s about the context in which it should be judged. The 39 Steps has been nominated for a 2008 Tony Award for Best Play. Oh, get over it.

You are not alone, Ranger

HowManyOfMe.com

There are 186 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Well this was funner than pickin' my nose and starin' out the window. 186 people with my name. Who'd a thunk it.

The Tortoise Had It Right

Now see what you've done? Peer pressure, peer pressure; my life is nothing but giving in to peer pressure. So what if my dial-up connection on my computer was slow, it taught me patience and humility and, er, patience. But, no, I had to give in and buy Verizon's version of DSL, mainly because the timing was right due to their how-can-you-turn-this-down offer of practically giving it away for the first year. A sucker for a good coupon, me.

I should have just forked over the money to have 'em come over and install it but, again, the "easy" self-install package was free (even better than a coupon). When the box arrived I was totally intimidated by the variety of hardware and hid my head in the sand for a few days. I even left a message for my favorite tech dude, Dorian, asking if he would make a housecall. Unfortunately, he didn't return the contact and today, what the hell, I gave it a fling; full speed ahead.

The tutorial said to allow one hour for installation and I took it slowly and step-by-step, only clutching my temples once when I couldn't find an "Ethernet port" on my computer. Although not labeled as such there was a logical hole back there and I figured I would just plug my cord in there and if it was wrong, well, I could always bang my head against the wall; that would fix it. I did not want to call Verizon's help desk, that's as bad as asking for driving directions.

Anyway, short story too long, I've given birth to DSL even though it took me two hours. However, my new DSL is annoying the hell out of me because there is a thicket of new junk to wade through just to get back to my basic functions, like getting this blog to work. I should have listened to the twang of my basic instincts and stuck to the "old ways" because I don't even care that everthing is a tad faster. I know my mind is stuck in the past while my fingers reach for the stars, but the computer age is having the last laugh as I fumble the hand-off. Say what?

So now my TimeWarner cable box is obsolete and I have to either take it in for a free exchange or pay for installation; and the "check engine" light is on in my car, timed exactly coincidentally to my needing this years' inspection sticker. I think I need to call Ghost Busters.

Pigeons in the back...a lack

I maintain a small (20’ x 20’) urban backyard in Brooklyn and try to make it as visually pleasing as possible with perennials like hydrangea and forsythia, two evergreen firs and a wonderful weeping cherry tree. Every year I replenish the annuals in pots and plant borders of various ilk around the brick patio. To enhance the visuals using living feathered friends I not only have two birdbaths but I also spread birdseed along the back 40 (well, 4 maybe) because seeing the jays and cardinals and robins and grackles and sparrows frolic and feed and bathe is a thrill every time.

Over the years I’ve wondered why I have never seen pigeons in the yard even though flocks of them sometimes create patterns of aerodynamic wizardry in my neighborhood sky. Not that I mind, mind you, because pigeons are, as any car owner can attest, shit-machines of the highest order. But I wonder no more because the solution fell out of the sky, as it were, via the April 29th issue of the Science Times.

According to the director of the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology in Ithaca pigeons in the wild prefer nesting on cliffs and feeding in open areas, thus avoiding predators. Urban pigeons, whose food supply consists almost solely of food discarded by humans (giving a new meaning to the word “droppings”) tend to gather in open spaces and nest in the cliff-like nooks and crannies of tall buildings. “Backyards with flowers, shrubs or trees,” says director Miyoko Chu, “can provide excellent sources of food for other birds, but they don’t offer pigeons an appealing menu in their favorite place to dine: on the ground.”

It’s nice pigeons avoid my yard but it’s also nice to know why. I presume my lack of seagulls and geese have similar explanations but I won’t bother asking Mr. Chu because, really, now that the pigeon conundrum is solved, I don’t really give a…er, damn.