Author: Jeff Tabaco

First let me say that I love Netflix. The local distribution center is in Gaithersburg, Md, not very far away at all, and so the turnaround time is usually pretty quick. I return the DVDs by mail, and new ones arrive two days later. I also like how you can keep any movie as long as you want. I’ve had Hedwig and the Angry Inch in my possession for several weeks now, just because I haven’t gotten around to finishing it.

So, I watched Memento a while back. Really great, I thought. Such a confident movie. It straps you in your chair and says, “You will watch this story backwards, so get comfortable.” The ending was a bit weak, but still very good overall. I saw L.I.E., as well. Usually I’m not easily disturbed, but this one, which concerns coming of age and pedophilia in a Long Island town, got under my skin. That could very well have been the intention. Granted, the story and direction neither celebrate nor condemn the subject, but I think that’s what was depressing about it. I could neither identify with nor hope for the characters. Good acting (especially from the lead kid played by Paul Franklin Dano) and some interesting dialogue, but I give it a “just okay.”

Next in the Netflix queue: Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring — I want to re-watch it to get myself in the groove for The Two Towers — and The Cider House Rules.

I’ve come to hate the phrase “reality television,” as it’s currently being used. All the shows that pass as “reality TV” are just game shows. Just because something isn’t scripted doesn’t mean it’s “real.” Almost everything minus the contestants’ reactions are highly controlled. And so is it a social comment on the state of television that we look to “game shows” for “real” human interaction?

Don’t get me wrong. Some of my favorite shows fall into this category. But I won’t go so far to call them “reality.” I read over the People’s Choice Award winners the other day, and found that they have a category for “reality” show. (Survivor won.) The Emmys tastefully call their corresponding category “Non-Fiction,” and there is a subcategory for “Reality.” But a look at last year’s nominees reveals the Academy leaning in the documentary direction, like The Osbournes, American High, and Frontier House.

Speaking of documentaries, I finally got around to watching the PBS program on Lance Loud, who appeared in the 1970s “reality” series An American Family. Very moving. Immediately following, our local station also broadcast an original episode of the series, where Lance’s mom visits him in New York City. There’s so much drama there, restrained and without unnecessary sensationalism.

An NBC Christmas. Sean Hayes singing “The Christmas Song.” Megan Mullally on “Silent Night.” It’s all on the NBC Celebrity Christmas CD. Aside from them, of course, it runs the gamut from bad to mediocre, I’m afraid. Martin Sheen, John Spencer, and Stockard Channing on “Wonderful Christmastime”? Yikes. Track listing with artists is available on the Shop NBC website.

Top down. I like that ad for the new VW Beetle Convertible. More than anything, it’s the music: “Mr. Blue Sky” by Jeff Lynne, also heard on the commercial for the movie Adaptation. It’s a cute car, but I couldn’t imagine actually driving one without being self-conscious. It’s all, “Look at me! in my supercute car!” The original Beetle convertible had more swank.

Yikes. It’s been forever since the last update. Okay, five days isn’t forever, but it might as well be in this crazy, mixed-up, moving-at-the-speed-of-thought cyberworld. Work has been crappy. I’ve been sleepy. Ugh.

A full-fledged entry to be posted tonight, I promise. In the meantime: do you like this font? Is it too small?

Ah, Friday. Thank god. Not that I’m doing anything exciting tonight, but it’s nice to finally just sit back and take it easy. It snowed a little bit today, for just a few minutes really. It’s quite surreal, the few moments when snow starts to fall. There isn’t any accumulation on the ground yet, of course, so from my seventh-floor office window, the scene outside resembled a just-shaken snowglobe. (Hm. Isn’t it ironic to say that the real outdoor scene resembles the very thing that is supposed to represent it?) Anyway, it was pretty. That reminds me, there’s one scene in Far from Heaven that takes place just as it starts to snow. Nice and unusual production touch, I thought.

To woo women. I watched The Bachelorette the other night. Yikes. You’d think I’d enjoy this more than, say, Joe Millionaire, but I’m not so sure. Each of the potential suitors — or as TWoP calls them, “oily bohunks” — came across as either sleazy and/or cocky. There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and it’s the latter that’s a bit off-putting. But I suppose I can understand. There they all are, jockeying for position, flaunting their feathers. Honestly I don’t envy the woman. We’ll see. If the preview scenes are any indication, it gets more interesting once the shirts, er, I mean, gloves come off.

Rajani and I were talking on the phone while watching the pilot. She wondered what a gay version of the show would be like. I’m thinking, dude, you wouldn’t even have to wait for the one main guy to choose you, ’cause everyone could just hook up with each other. Everyone’s a winner! Am I right? Now there’s an idea.

About a DVD. DVDfile.com has a sneak-peek review of the About a Boy DVD, to be released next week. The extra features look really good. I can’t wait.

There’s an article in a December 2002 issue of The Economist entitled “In Praise of Clutter,” or “Leave my desk alone. It works.”

I’m reminded that my grandfather used to have a coffee mug which read, “A cluttered desk is a sign of genius.” It was just a novelty mug made for messy office desks, not homely kitchen tables, but to my little-kid mind, the sentence seemed to have a kind of wisdom just beyond my mind’s reach. My grandfather was always telling me old proverbs, so I took this as another truth, albeit vague and mysterious. “Ah yes,” I would think, “messy is good.” Of course, at the time I didn’t see the intended humor (or rather, corniness) of this misplaced mug, but still I believe: clutter (in neat, easily accessible piles, at least) is all right.

I found this neat photo in the New Yorker (Jan. 13, 2003; p. 72), by Stephen Shore, whose exhibition opens this May at the 303 Gallery in New York. I like all the layers of representation: a photo of a billboard (in essence, another photo, or painting) of a mountain. You wonder, what’s real? Which is art? Does the billboard really depict what it obscures? It’s very much like Magritte’s La condition humaine.

Part I: Joe von Schmoe. Yes, I saw Joe Millionaire last night. The prologue, in which our man Evan is taught in the ways of the elite, was interesting, I thought. It’s as much of a Cinderella story for him, as it is for the women. I confess to a bit of amusement at their reaction to his atrocious dancing. They were all like, “He’s such a great dancer!” I suppose if I were wearing an evening gown, whilst twirling in the arms of a tall, dark, handsome (not to mention wildly wealthy) man, I wouldn’t be paying much attention to his two left feet either.

Part II: Joe, Cup of. Speaking of tall, dark, and rich, I found myself on the horns of an inordinately time-consuming dilemma at Safeway the other day: deciding what coffee to buy. The descriptions on the can were entertaining, but not very helpful. I had narrowed it down to “dark and intense,” and something like “rich and nutty.” On the back of the can, there’s a chart detailing the spectrum of varieties, and these two were at the strong end of the scale. That’s how I like ’em, strong and hearty. Hot, sweet, and creamy, with an aroma you’d love to wake up to. Oh god, are we still talking about coffee? In any case I snubbed the French, and grabbed the Italian. Italian Roast, that is. I don’t remember now which of the two that was.

Man vs. machine oversized sport-utility vehicle. Great bit on Susan’s journal about SUVs. My philosophy is, the bigger the car, the dumber the driver. Oh, sit back down. Let me explain. (Let me also say that I first learned how to drive in a Chevy Astro minivan, and I’ve gotten used to being higher than most other cars in traffic. It’s nice.)

It goes back to my high-school driver’s ed teacher. He used to say that once you get into a car, your intelligence goes down. Think about it. Suddenly you’re inside a metal-and-glass body the size of an office cubicle (or larger), and yet your brain stays the same size. You’re a dinosaur. You have no way of really knowing if, say, you’ve parked too close for comfort, unless you hear the faint, but familiar screeching of metal on concrete (or screaming of valet attendant), or start playing bumper cars with your neighboring vehicles. Driving is both art and science, an exercise in constant and, over time, increasingly accurate estimation.

Oh, gee. Now you’ve got me started. I’ll go on to say that, as a pedestrian, I get so outraged when drivers stop inside the crosswalk at intersections. I’m like, you get an entire lane… you can’t give me this one freakin’ strip of paint to walk on? Do I not deserve that modicum of dignity?! Right of way! And, um, hello, this is for you drivers of the fair District of Columbia, Northwest: 17th Street north of Massachusetts Avenue is one way. I know it’s a strange intersection, but let me say it again: one way, people. So don’t you come barreling across, looking at me like I’m the crazy one as I flail my arms, trying to re-direct you the other way. Ahem.

Don’t get me wrong: I love to drive. But I think having taken mass transit for so long has made me an advocate for that lowly two-legged creature of the road, the pedestrian.

I just watched an excellent PBS documentary on U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan, called Center of the Storm. It follows him behind the scenes in the Afghanistan reconstruction efforts, his Nobel Peace Prize ceremony, the eve of independence in East Timor, and even his appearance on Sesame Street.