Borat: A Pure Comedy Experience

The fates smiled upon me this eveing and got me into one of the advance screenings of Borat, the film. I'm not going to lie: I had my doubts that I would even get in, considering it was free for all CMJ Festival badge holders, that it was early in the evening (6:30 PM), that I didn't even have my badge until 6:00 PM and, most importantly, it was Borat.

Co-worker Mike and I headed over to the Walter Reade Theater at Lincoln Center and we were greeted by a line of about 200 people (mostly under age 20) waiting to get in. However, if one knows anything about media events, it's that there's always a publicist and said publicist always has The List. Technically Mike and I and his friend were on The List, and all we had to do was make our arrival known.

Guess what? We weren't on the list. Perhaps in the nuttiness of putting together CMJ the lists weren't updated as needed, and Mike and I were faced with the dire fate of missing the film. That's when I noticed that the doors into the theater were open. Basically everyone on the list would just walk in, stand in a line, check their cell phones with security (so that no bootlegged copies of the film got out) and took a seat.

Mike and I got in the line. He's a tall guy, non-threatening and I am a nice girl with an easy smile and a predilection for low-cut blouses. Long story short, charming the guards and making small talk got us seats about 10 rows back from the screen. Perfecto. See ya later, suckas!

We sat for about a good half hour, during which time I dorked out over the CMJ Music Festival program. Yes, Virginia, I am an indie rock dork. I love obscure bands whose names begin with "The" as in "The Shins" and "The Knife." If I were the lead singer of an indie rock band, we would be "The Pterodactyls." Ironic, no?

Finally, Borat himself arrived, kissed a few men while coming in and did a little spiel about his movie film. Three minutes later her was gone. With every seat in the house taken, the cinematic experience that is Borat began.

And what a film it was. I will not give away anything, because I think the trailers and all the stuff on You Tube has revealed enough. Suffice it to say that some moments are comic gold, others platinum and one in particular will have you begging for mercy.

Afterwards we were treated to the requisite media shwag, this time in the way of free movie soundtracks, Borat pins and "I Heart Khazakhstan" bumperstickers. It was a great night for the empire.

Happy Monday

'neath the blood red canopy...
Originally uploaded by Trapac.

Good morning, all. I hope you are settling into Monday well. I don't work in an office on Mondy, instead I teach in the evenings. I still like to get up before noon, though, and at least write a little. I tell my students that in order to stay sharp they must write everyday. So here I am.

1. I've been having a strange dream lately in which I am in a dirty Chinese food place and I can't make up my mind as to what I would like. What do you think this signifies?

2. Who else, besides myself, is going to all the CMJ stuff this week? I would love to have a concert buddy for a few things, so hit me back. I have a press pass and can get into everything (yes, I'm even going to the Borat screening on thr 31st) but there's lots of other stuff I would like to see.


3. I am in the market for a voice coach to work on repetoire. I'm looking for someone with experience with performing singers, not some yahoo who likes to make his students to exercises all day long. Theory is great, performing is better. No conservatory dorks, please. I need someone who can help me get on a stage and perform.

Yo Momma -- Upper East Side Version

Yo momma
Originally uploaded by Alex Eales.

Ever since Flavor of Love finished, I didn't think I could find another show that could fufill the void in my life for mindless humor. Luckily, one night I came across Wilmer Valderama's show "Yo Momma," and I was made whole again.

"Yo Momma" is simple brilliance at its best. Wilmer and his crew get people in NYC and LA to battle using Yo Momma jokes. The goal is to win the battle, the pride of your 'hood and $1,000 in cash money. (And I love how Wilmer says "cash money.")

The show usually has people battling for Williamsburg or Flatbush or Hollywood, but I wondered what would the Yo Momma jokes be like if Wilmer and his crew took the battles uptown to the Upper East Side, land of wealth, private schools, foreign nannies and bored housewives.

A sample:

You're so poor your summer home is in Newark.

Your mother's so fat she wears a size 6.

Your father's so poor he can only afford one mistress.

Your family's so poor your car service is a pedicab.

You're so unpopular you had to go to Friends Acamedy to get people to like you.

Your family's so poor the Junior League had to have fund raiser for your grocery bills.

Your mother's so stupid she thought a Classic 6 was a pack of beers.

Busy Little Bee

HONEY
Originally uploaded by chrissie2003.

I've been a busy bee lately, mostly writing, teaching class and going to the gym. I love working out when it's cold outside. Something about cold weather makes me feel mushy, and so I go to the gym to feel less mushy. It's wacky.

Two funny stories for tonight:

I live in a nice building on 20th Street, and aside from the 12-year-olds that used to hover outside my window, it's a quiet place full of professional people who mind their business and don't drink heavily on weekdays. Praise be.

There are always things posted outside the front door, like UPS receipts and notes for mesengers, etc. There is no doorman. Most of the time these things are ignored by everyone since they don't pertain to them. On Monday afternoon, I noticed that everyone was stopping to look at one clump of papers that was stuck to the wall. Never one to pass up group think, I checked it out. Seems that some guy in Penthouse G (it's really just an apartment on the top floor) was being sued. And this wasn't just any old lawsuit, he was being sued by a credit card company.

My question is this: How much do you have to owe a credit card before they decide to sue you? The worst part is that everyone in the building was stopping to read these papers. I have a feeling he won't be living in Penthouse G for very much longer. But I can assure the tenant that life is just as nice down in the basement, if you don't really care about natural light...

Earlier that same day I went to a screening of Babel. It's the new film starring, among others, Cate Blanchett and Brad Pitt and was directed by the same guy who did 21 Grams. I was pretty stoked to see the film, but I got there late and most of the seats were taken. I grabbed a seat next to some random guy and settled in. Seemed like a nice way to spend two hours. And don't forget Brad Pitt!

How wrong I was. Not only is Babel really bad, in an overly forced artisitic kind of way (the disjointed story with an ensemble cast is so Memento) but I also had to sit next to some guy who literally moaned in pain for the entire two and half hours.

I know what you're thinking, "Was he really moaning throughout the whole show?" Yes, yes he was. I started to watch as he twisted and fidgeted in his chair, and I realized, based on his body movement, that he probably had a herniated disc in his back, like me. This time last year I could barely sit through movies, but I certainly didn't twitch and moan and irritate everyone around me the way he did. More bothersome was that it was a screening at the Viacom building, so pretty much everyone there was a media person of some sort and probably had to watch the film for one professional reason or another. This was no matinee. Not that this guy cared. At one point he even leaned over to me and said in a loud voice, "You'll have to excuse me. I have a bad back." I am not kidding when I say that everyone in theater turned to look at us.

I decided to go the compassionate route with this guy and decided that after the show I would offer him Dr. Boris' phone number, my neurologist, since he worked so much magic on me. After all, what if he didn't know he slipped a disc, and all this pain was new to him? I might actually be doing him a big favor by telling him about cortisone shots. Yay me.

When the lights came up, I realized that The Moaner walked with cane and had a hard time standing. At first I felt bad, but then I wondered why someone would come to public screening if they couldn't sit through a movie. Why moan through it and disturb everyone around you?

I didn't know. I just picked up my bag and left.

Next week: It's the CMJ Festival in NYC! Bring on all the filthy hipster guys with sleeves of tattoos. You know I love you all.

OK, Fine...Have Some Cat Pictures

A blog is not a blog without some cat photos, and so I present to you shots of one of my cats, Mozart. Cats are pretty wiley which makes them pretty hard to photograph. Mozart seems to put up with it, as opposed to Maestro who dodges cameras like a scandal-mired starlet dodges the paparazzi.

Is he fat or is he just fluffy? I say fluffy.


Mozart likes any and all flat surfaces.

Gorbachev and Other Random Photos

First off, read a profile that I wrote about Ed Harris in this week's issue of the New York Resident. It's rad.

Moving on: Most people spend their weekends seeing movies or trying new restaurants. Me, I like to see what former Soviet leaders are up to. This sort of thing is my bag, baby.

I won't bore you with too many shots of Misha Gorb. Here are a few and then we'll move on:

Talking to the Press


Up close


Late September/Early October was a little uneventful for me.

My cats, Maestro and Mozart, sat in the window next to my computer.


My awesome nephew, Mini (Frank), came to visit me. He's half Korean and half Millard.


The Fam:


Here Mini totally looks like Maddox Jolie-Pitt


Cold Lampin'


Outside a Party in the East Village


Who in this town doesn't have a reality show?

The Grand and Gorbachev

Gorbachev 068
Originally uploaded by bpx.

I'm trying to get the juices flowing this morning, so I figured I would start by letting you all know about the weekend.

On Friday night I hopped the train into Manhattan to go with Erin C. to the opening of a new nightclub called The Grand. We didn't know what to expect, but given that there was red carpet outside and lots of photographers, we figured it couldn't totally suck. Inside everyone was uber fashionable, in a trendy but predictable Murray Hill kind of way. Most of the girls were decked out in halter tops and what seemed like scaled-down, 1980s prom dresses. We questioned when they came back in style.

Erin and I hit the bar wearing jeans and black tops, scaled down as if we were there because had to be, not because we wanted to be. This worked in our favor since within 10 minutes some flak approached us and asked us who we wrote for. Was it that obvious we were writers? Are writers not allowed to dress well? The flak moved on to harass someone else and we had out way with the open bar. And by open bar, I mean top shelf.

We boozed and schmoozed and made friends with this funny gal who went to Princeton. Finally the crowd thickened and we decided to stick our head into Tao across the street, where people were still sitting down to dinner at 10:30 PM. I love that about New York. People will get together at midnight and eat. Erin and I didn't actually eat anything, we just leaned over the railing on the second level and watched everyone. Tao is very cool and we tried to help out a tourist from Minnesota pick good bars in the Meatpacking District. It was our good deed of the day.

On Sunday La Madre and I drove into Manhattan again to see a question and answer with Mikhail Gorbachev. I thought it would be a pretty passive event, but then a bunch of us were brought up to a luncheon where Mikhail was eating and I was able to take a bunch of photos of him, but not with him. (Something about security...) Once I get a new cable for my camera, I will totally upload them for you. Some of them actually came out great.

The talk was great, although I was surprised that Mikhail needed a translator. His translator, Pavel, (Paul, if you're nasty) was awesome. I liked watching Mikhail, though, the way he would get animated when he spoke and talk with him hands. It reminded me a lot of my mother's uncles. When he got up to leave, no one in the audience was allowed to leave, take photos of him, or try to get his autograph. Crazy.

Afterwards La Madre started speaking in machine-gun Russian to some Latvian woman on the street who came in from New Jersey to see Mikhail. They even exchanged phone numbers and plan to catch up soon.

In case you were wondering, the poster above says: Children, do not allow adult to play with fire. It's rather relevant given today's political climate, n'est pas?

Here is a link to a whole Flickr set of USSR propaganda posters.

Joyridin'

320
Originally uploaded by /\ltus.

I found the car. It was, of all places, in the parking lot at the train station, on the side headed to New York City. When I came in on Thursday night, it should have been on the New Haven-bound side. That said, I probably walked right by it on Thursday morning as I waited for the train, but didn't even notice it. After all, every third person in this town has silver Beamer. It blended right in with the rest of nature.

A car should never just be left in a driveway on a sunny day, so I scrubbed up and hopped in this afternoon and headed over to Target (Tar-jhay if you're nasty) to pick up some supplies. After about an hour of rummaging around the aisles and trying on some Isaac Mizrahi stuff, I decided to head home. My driving has improved a lot, and I think I'm finally getting the hang of it. I find that listening to Herbie Hancock's "Headhunters" helps relax me while driving, particurally track number two, "Watermelon Man." I suggest you try it at home. Is he playing a pan flute in the beginning of the song? Someone please advise.

It was too nice of a day to head home after Target, so I kept driving along the post road, stopping once for an eyebrow wax. I got to the center of town and thought I would park and walk up and down Greenwich Avenue. I thought better of it and instead took a few random turns until I was deep in back Greenwich.

I know the area around Old Greenwich, Riverside and Cos Cob pretty well, but the rest of Greenwich is an enormous place that I've never spent a lot of time in. It gets really woodsy, really fast and you can't see all the houses from the street. Nevertheless, on a clear day it's great for joyriding, and I did just that for an hour, taking every random road I could find. I blared the radio and sang along, happy that I not only found the car, but I actually seemed to be good at driving it.

I think that for someone like me, whose driving skills are not what they should be, the Beamer is the perfect car. I know that sounds like a contradiction, since why should a crappy driver have a nice car, but let's look at it logically. Beamers have unmatched handling (yes, even better than a Mercedes) and can stop on a dime. If I have to swerve or stop or just get out of the way, I think a Beamer would keep me out of trouble long before, say, a Nissan or a Buick would. That was epiphany today, and I am pretty sure I'm right.

After driving around for over an hour, I realized I had no idea where I was. I was still in Connecticut, since all the cars in the driveways still had Connecticut plates, but I may as well have been on another planet. I ended up having to go back the way I came on North Street and soon I was on the Post Road.

Tonight I am staying in, watching the house while Doug is off in Denver and beyond, fly fishing. I realized today how huge Greenwich is and I would like to know more people in it. Given that I don't have children and I'm not a member of the Junior League, how does one go about it? There are so many stereotypes about this town, about the hedge find guys and the bored, semi-anorexic housewives and the celebrities who secretly live in the big houses in the woods. What's it all about? I want to know.

Dude, Where's the Car?

Last night I took a late train into Old Greenwich. It pulled in around 11:15 PM, and I was pretty stoked that I wouldn't have to walk to Le Doug's house, since I figured he left the car in station's parking lot a few days ago when he left for Denver. I had the extra keys in my hand, I just needed to find the car. That late at night, it wouldn't be too hard too find the car, right? Wrong.

The car was not in the lot. There were a handful of cars, none of which were Doug's little 5-series Beamer. There was one 7-series at the far end of the lot, but that was not my chariot.

What to do? I was cold, and I was banking on driving the half mile home. With no car, I had to walk home. It wouldn't take more than ten minutes, but ten minutes in the dark in October can get really spooky. (Vampires! Boogey Men!) Case in point: there was a middle aged guy walking ahead of me, and on the corner by the library he just...stopped. Worse was that was wearing a tan raincoat, so immediately I thought he was a flasher. As I passed, I realized he was reading some sort of program from an art exhibit. In the middle of Sound Beach Avenue? At almost 11:30 PM? Wacky. I kept walking, since Doug's house was just over the hill. As I walked up the hill a car pulled up next to me, which was driven by an Asian woman. I figured she was going to ask directions, so I put on my polite face. Instead she rolled down her window and said, "Would you like a ride, miss?"

Would I like a ride? Was I seven years old? In this day and age, what stranger offers another stranger a ride? In the middle of the night? How did she not know I wasn't a serial killer? And what made her think I would get into her car to begin with? I politely declined and told her I was just over the hill, which I was. Still, it was creepy. Or maybe she was just being nice.

I still have no idea where the car is. No, it's not in the garage. I already checked there. Any ideas, kids?

The weekend is nigh and there is much going on. Tonight I am going to the opening of a new nightclub called The Grand. Supposedly Nick Lachey is the guest of honor. I am so there, if only to gawk and poke fun. Let the heckling begin!

Sadly, I am going to miss the cat show at Madison Square Garden this weekend. Mozart, my orange Persian, was supposed to be a show cat, had he not lost a front tooth. That is why he ended up in the shelter where Doug and I got him. Someone didn't want him because he wasn't good enough to be a show cat. Their loss, my gain. He's still a superstar.

The Russian Film Festival opens today. Can we say free vodka? Nazdrovia!

I'm No Cook, So I Get Out of the Kitchen

linguine pesto
Originally uploaded by speedM.

Hello all, and apologies for not blogging much this week. I was busy on a professional level. When there is writing to be done, sometimes this blog gets ignored. I only have so much mental energy for writing and more often than not it gets spent on more lucrative projects than this thing, which yields no income whatsoever.

In other news, it has come to my attention that I don't know how to cook. Actually, I already knew this, but it was pointed out to me yesterday. I tried to defend myself, based on three basic points:

1. I Live in New York City. There is no need to know how to cook in this town, especially when there is an amazing bodega across the street from me as well as an incredible sushi joint. That's the other thing: sushi is my favorite food ever. Forget Italian, forget Indian and definitely no Mexican. Sushi. I can't exactly make that at home, and so I have spent the better part of my seven-year stint in New York City finding the best sushi places in every neighborhood. If you come and visit me, I will show you.

2. Genetics: My best friend Jen is Sicilian. If you give her a box of pasta, some tomato sauce and some vegetables, she will whip something up, no recipe needed. I have watched her do this and it is like watching Houdini. My dad is from New Jersey and my mother is originally from Belarus and also lived in Germany. When was the last time a former Soviet state was known for its cuisine? Vodka, yes. But borscht and pergoies will only get you so far in life.


3. Cooking is Simply a Skill I Never Learned: A lot of women will tell you that they learned how to cook from their grandmothers or mothers. Thing is, my mom is a great cook, and when she cooked everyone was tossed out of the kitchen so she could concentrate. That said, I never learned the secrets of roasting a chicken or broiling a roast. And I've done pretty well for myself without them.

Nevertheless, there have been requests that I learn how to make a few things, because, you know, I'm female and it seems to be expected of me. (As if childbirth and dodging obesity weren't enough.) So...does anyone have a few good recipes they could share with me? I understand all the basics of the kitchen, since I actually can bake and I enjoy that. It's just dinners and entrees that I don't understand or have any particular interest in. However, gender roles must be enforced, and who am I to thumb my nose at that?

In happier news: A Chorus Line is back on Broadway!!! I want to see this more than anything else in the world, mostly because I saw the original when it was still at Shubert theater back in 1989. I was 11 and my dad took me, which was kind of awkward given all the dirty jokes.

The Most Wonderful Quiet

Yesterday afternoon all was right in the Gramercy Bunker. I was getting some work done, flipping through the channels, and then all of a sudden, the 12 -year-olds were back. I cringed, because this saga has been going on for well over a week, and there didn't seem to be any resolution.

It was the same boys who were at my window when I was in a towel last week, only this time they were throwing empty beer and soda cans up at the girl's window above me. Some were hitting my window. Then the gate opened to my stairs, and once again the boys were running up and down it.

A week of this nonsense was getting to be a little much, especially after the super broke up a party on Friday afternoon that had 20 kids, unsupervised, in the girl's apartment. One would think that after being shouted at by both a resident and the super one wouldn't invite her little friends over anyone. No such luck. I went up to her apartment, banged on the door, and told her that I was being put in a very uncomfortable spot. The building was not a playground, mostly because the playground is literally right next door. I reminded her that almost every resident in the building was angry at her for turning the lobby into a free for all.

The Little Girl swore up and down that she didn't invite the boys over, that they come everyday and just hang around. That seemed a little too convenient for me, especially when during this conversation the crew of boys came back. I asked them to leave, and one hung around. When I told him to leave he just stood there, and that is when I walked over to th 13th precinct.

Is it lame to call the cops on a pack of 12-year-olds? Yes. However, when one is paying good money to live in Gramercy, one does not want to have to listen to their swearing and shouting in the afternoon. Furthermmore, no one has seen an adult at this apartment in well over a week. Who leaves a 12-year-old girl alone for that long?

The cops came and I explained the situation, and they went into the apartment to speak with the girl. While I waited outside, other residents who I'd never met before thanked me for finally getting the police in there. That was strange.

Long story short: They somehow got the girl's father on the phone, who apparently works three hours away. He had no idea about any of this because he comes home late at night. He also didn't see why she couldn't be left alone, because he felt she was grown. (?!?!) The girl also claimed that she had a babysitter three days a week, which I actually doubt based on last week's antics.

It was quiet for the rest of the night and this afternoon has been pretty tame as well. It's a shame it had to come down to this, but what can you do? I also think it's sad that these kids have nothing else to do with their time than stand outside someone's window and shout. Isn't there a basketball game they can go to? Hell, there's a court right across the street.

Still no word on where the mother is or when she will return. Unreal.

Technical Difficulties

Bear Rug
Originally uploaded by Tiger Empress.

I had planned on uploading a bunch of pics that I've taken over the last few days, including some shots of my little nephew. Alas, the cord that attaches the computer to the camera is not working, so we will have to wait a few days before I can find a new one. I don't think B & H Photo will be open over Yom Kippur.

In the meantime, please read this piece in the Times today about Flavor of Love. I don't often admit that it is one of my favorite guilty pleasures. And by guilty pleasures, I mean that I not only watch the show, but afterwards I go to the VH1 website and watch all the out takes as well.


As for the 12-year-olds, it seems it is a much more complicated situation than I realized, and I seem to be stuck in the middle of it. Basically, one girl in my building has been inviting over all her friends and her friends' friends all week. The doors are being left open so that upwards of 20 kids can come over after school and there is no adult supervision. At all. Ever. Meanwhile, these kids are blaring music, screaming and riding bikes up and down the lobby. It's a mess. And there's no adult. Anywhere. The super has been called, he's broken up the party, but again, no one knows where the actual adult tenant is. Who leaves a 12-year-old alone for a week? Crazy.