I am still the crock pot of denial, hubris and body odor I was two days ago.
It is still the middle of winter.
Fortunately I have warm clothes.

Four from the End of 2009

Maki, Aki, Billy & Doze

The last night of the first decade of this century slid into the first morning of the second decade of this century with many unexpected occurrences. It was, I suppose, a fittingly odd end to one year and a portentous beginning to another. Happy New Year.

Accumulations

2009 was something of a paradigm shift year in my chosen profession. Changes had been afoot for some time, but the particular confluence of sudden mass economic downturn and long-brewing technological revolution brought wholesale deviation in the creative and remunerative process. The widely accepted old model, the one where clients sit in your room and pay handsomely for a carefully monitored kind of creative collaboration in cozy confines, has shifted to the seemingly widely accepted new model, the one where clients drop off a few firewire drives full of footage, email you a PDF of a print campaign and pay quite a bit less generously for a product of relatively unfettered creative volition. The trade off is obvious, painful and exhilarating. In the end, as a commercial editor, you get paid less for doing more with less, but the more can be the stuff of a creative editor's dream. This year I had work shown at Wembley Stadium, Collette in Paris, the Saatchi Gallery in London and in the Kenneth Cole windows of 5th Avenue in Manhattan. On more than a few occasions I was handed drives full of footage and asked to "make something." And I finally got to use some super powers for good.
It's been a productive year, that way.

At the beginning of the winter break of my sixteenth year, I had a seventeen year old girlfriend. During the holiday it snowed wonderfully, the type of snow that accumulates on the hills surrounding Seattle, stopping normal life cold. The first night it snowed, a snow that would stick inches thick by midnight, I walked up and over the 14th Street hill and past an idling Volkswagen Beetle in the parking lot of the Catholic church. Earlier that afternoon I had phoned a girl who lived on the other side of the hill, asking to meet in the parking lot that evening. We both arrived on time. As we walked arm in arm past the Bug, its windows steamed up from the commotion inside, snow melting on the rumbling hood, exhaust lit by the tall parking lamp, my seventeen year old girlfriend stuck her head out of the car window and laughed. We both laughed. I had a new fifteen year old girlfriend. She had moved up to eighteen.

Views of a sky in the waning moments of a decade.

We are tired and awful. Our kindness buried in hibernation.
If only I could shut my mind off.

Oh Fine Fake Flower, I have chased you across the pavement as the cold howled. I have cornered you trembling in the wind, caught you in your moment of fatigue. Great Flower I have crossed the sidewalk, I did not care that the Mexicans laughed, wondered what I was doing scrambling with my cell phone pointed at the ground. Dear Flower, I salute you.

THE OK OH MOVIE REVIEW: AVATAR EDITION
There are many knocks against a film like this and they must clutter the airwaves. Racist? The nine foot, blue, tail laden, cat eyed, four fingered noble savages singing like Ladysmith Black Mombazo, chanting like the Lion King and wearing their hair in the tourist's delight braid or fierce mohawk certainly harkens back to something more than vaguely tribal, whatever poison you choose. But to me, a late 20th Century North American White Guy nurtured at the tit of political correctness, this doesn't really hold too much water. It doesn't bother me anyhow. They had to look like something. And maybe there would have been an outcry if they had jewfros and favoured klezmer. Or buck teeth and played the banjo. Hard to say. What I do know, is that this film was far more an engrossing theater-going experience than I've had, perhaps ever. Not the best film I've seen, but maybe in its pulpy, purely metaphorical action-story way, one of the most effective. Unobtanium is a pretty lick of a goofy name though.

Extra Review Addendum 1: According to some in my household, Sam Worthington is the next heart throb. According to others, Giovanni Ribisi is the next great bit player. Sigourney Weaver and Stephen Lang are classic yin yang foils and whoever played the lady big blue alien lead, is undoubtedly hot stuff in real life.

Extra Review Addendum 2: This movie will undoubtedly be over-loved. I am over loving it myself, but privately. Remember, it is best to over love things in the closet, no matter what your therapist says.

Christmas Eve on Kent Avenue

Looking through my photos from the last week I stumbled on this view outside Jeremy's apartment taken on our way to Jessie and Matt's Christmas Eve party. The live image startled me then, jogging my brain out of mid-holiday torpor, and the captured image startles me again this morning.

Yesterday, Northern Boulevard

Yesterday I drive from Brooklyn to Queens. From Queens back to Brooklyn. Then I drive further into Brooklyn, turn around and drive into Queens again. On each route I see the urban decay that exists between Brooklyn and Queens. There are no kids playing around fire hydrants, no stickball games, no strong, handsome, proud people out and about. No, it is simply cold and the trees are naked.

Merry Christmas from the Ok Oh Goy

Expectation is the hobgoblin of so, so much, not least of which is a good night's sleep. So last night, first as Wifey and I constructed, wrapped and ogled the boy's presents under the tree and later, as the boy himself tossed and turned, feverishly mumbling the ABCs and dialoging incoherently with Goatie the kid, Special the turtle and Horton the elephant, that little imp of anxiety haunted my eyelids. Would Sonny be well enough to wake up bright eyed and exclaim in giggles and pattering feet upon the bounty Santa had deposited through our front window? Should I get up to search out some distant twenty four hour three hundred and sixty five day drug store to get the children's Tylenol to reduce his temperature? Am I one of those selfish parents that completely ignores the signs of a child's oncoming illness in favour of eggnog? A few days ago the conundrum of whether to introduce the Santa concept was enough consternation itself until a man on the radio supplied some sound reasoning: by selling, or letting be sold, Santa Claus to the impressionable, the child is given the opportunity to believe in a magical being that does magical things that seem to be tangible and readily apparent, only to figure out through the process of maturation of reasoning and deduction (and completely on his or her own two thinking feet) that the supernatural fat man does not, in fact exist at all. This provides a moment of early life reflection into the harmlessness of myth so long as it is placed in context. The idea being that the child, once inoculated of the Santa myth, would turn around and notice that everyone seems to gaily buy into such an obvious fantasy for the sake of a little cheer is not such a bad thing. Myth thus takes its rightful place in the psyche. The suspension of disbelief takes on initial meaning. When we heard this, Wifey and I turned on the Claus banter to eleven. What a learning moment! Better yet, and unexpectedly, the excitement of Christmas crept back into our little apartment. Somewhere along the way the distaste of rampant commercialism tag-teemed cynically with the distaste of old timey religion to piledrive some of the joy out of the season. But everything seems to have its place despite my better notions, and the thought that Kringle could be, for a couple years at least, not only a harmless but beneficial part of our household has made me surprisingly content.

I am not a fan of pre-appointed gift giving. It is a deplorable quality I have to own up to. And I do not love receiving gifts since I only really enjoy giving them if it's on my terms. That is to say, if I see something I think a particular person would like, I'd like to get it for them regardless of calendar considerations. These opportune gifts, ones that make sense to me, then ought to be tallied at the end of the year towards whatever gifts I am supposed to be giving on specific occasions. Tallied on such a qualified "impact" basis as to cover all the bases. If I spontaneously give a present to a distant cousin on a random day and not to my brother on his birthday, the gift still ought to be counted at the end of the year as equal merit on the sheet. So maybe this year my brother doesn't get a present, his cousin sure got one that was astonishingly and surprisingly effective! I think this is a far preferable way of gifting. It gives me more latitude regarding my spending, and makes the gifts far more personal and inspirational. And I don't buy into the whole "keeping a list" thing or the "squirrel approach" to gift giving. These do not contain the emotional impact for giver or receiver I am looking for. Of course I know this is not how the world works. No one will keep track for me. No one, at the end of the year will say "Oh, I didn't get a Christmas present from Todd, but he gave Sally a rad book on the 5th of August!" And I haven't yet figured out how not to care about the notoriety, so I'll just keep being an absent-minded miser. Sorry, it isn't personal, I'm just not comfortable with the current system. I still appreciate the heck out of you.

THE OK OH STARTING ELEVEN FROM THE FIRST DECADE OF THE 21st CENTURY

(click the names for video link)

Goalie: Buffon. When a guy walks out onto the field with a scarf on, then keeps the scarf on through the game, and looks that good and indomitable doing it, well, there's no question.

Right Back: Cafu. The guy looks like Wifey's Pa. I can't get over how much the guy looks like Wifey's Pa. And I want Wifey's Pa on my team.

Center Half Uno: Cannavaro. One time, playing down on the Chinatown field, just before my ankles got real bad, and right after a couple of seasons of league games, when I was at the top of my soccer confidence and my head was shaved, I played pick up with a bunch of the CSC guys and played this incredible game at center back, taking the ball off everyone, scoring a goal and laying off a couple more. One of the guys on the opposing team said to one of the guys on my team: "Jesus, who invited Cannavaro?" So, Cannavaro.

Center Half Dos: Paolo Maldini. This guy played for the same team for 25 years and was still better than anyone else. He was 40-something when he retired.

Left Back: Bixente Lizarazu. He looks like a Basque pirate, surfs and has a stadium named after him. And he's a jiu jitsu champion. And he's rad.

Mid Uno: Zidane. The head butt only made me love him more.

Mid Dos: Pavel Nedved. A never ending whirling dervish of creativity and guile.

Mid Tres: Claude Makelele. If I could base my game on one guy it wouldn't be Makelele, yet every time I step on the field I want channel him.

Mid Quatro: Lorik Cana. I don't know much about this guy except I saw a video of him last week and I felt like I witnessed a long lost brother. I'll take two super exciting defensive midfielders in a team that already has Zidane and Nedved any day. Really, it's just a rad video.

Striker Uno: Francesco Totti. No one wears their socks like Totti wears his socks. I don't care how lame this guy is, he is a favorite. I don't choose my favorites, they just happen.

Striker Dos: Henrik Larsson. What a stinking nice guy.

Substitutes: Thierry Henry, Dan Lane, Wayne Rooney, Carles Puyol, Laurent Blanc, Mark Firth, Marcel Desailly, All Three Bloombergs, Neal Parchment, Rino Gattusso and Edgar Davids. Terry can sit on the side and cheer.

A Composition for Big Dan

Where does anger come from and where does it go? It wells up suddenly, propelling things through the air. Fists, spit, coffee. And when the thing is done, the true, justified anger has left and the something else that sets in is a newer, falser anger. An anger based on fear, shame and the fact that wherever that first honest anger came from seems remote and distant.

Shipwrecks

Que est-ce que c'est, le cinéma?

Ok Oh Grudge Match: Michael Mann vs. Quentin Tarantino
or Inglorious Basterds v. Public Enemies
I desperately want to write a review of these movies. Desperately. I'd start by ruminating on the odd magical crock pot that is filmmaking. I'd say something about style. I'd follow it up with some this is like that sort of statement. I'd make some disparaging remarks instantly retraced via faint praise. I'd finish up with a one-liner. But it snowed this weekend. And I bought a Christmas tree. My son picked it out. He walked down the row of Christmas trees, not really inspecting thoroughly, then stopped, pointed at the tree he wanted and that was that. We bought the tree for thirty five dollars, strapped it to the top of the car with one long piece of white, thin twine, and I carried it up three flights of stairs. We papier-mâché'd little balloons for ornaments. Actually, Wifey papier-mâché'd as I proved a disaster at it so I put the lights on the tree. Later, when we realized I didn't buy enough lights (Wifey swears she thought at the time I needed to buy three boxes) I went out again into the slush and snow and cold to get more. Before I left, I set Sonny up in front of the You Tube to watch his first Muppet Christmas Special. When I got back, we ate grilled cheese sandwiches. In between and around and during all this, we watched the two films in question. At times I had to stop the videos due to violence in proximity to youth, or to put said youth in a bath. But, all in all, we did watch the films, in the end. Well, I did. During one of the films, Wifey decided she needed to do a little Pilates workout instead. This is all to say that, true to form, whatever review I concoct, as long or short as it may be, will be woefully devoid of studious attention to detail or a coherent assessment within the context of intellectual observance. Nope. Whatever I say will flow from feeling, glimpses of feeling and slight psychological triggers based on excitement, tension and deeply held unconscious suspicions. First of all, Michael Bay is the high-end catalog photog, the Victoria's Secret photog if you will, where Michael Mann is the guy they get to do the editorial work, the Vogue guy. Bay gets paid more, hits his money shots and fills the thing up. Mann gets paid less and concentrates on higher photographic ideals. Maybe Bay wants to be Mann. Maybe Mann wants to be Bay. Maybe, Bay wants to be Bay with Mann's photographic acumen, while Mann wants to be hanging his stuff in a gallery in Chelsea. I don't know. I just don't know. Either way, I'll always pick a Mann movie over a Bay movie. Any day of the week. Do you see what I'm getting at? Public Enemies is not a bad film. It is a little, pretty and depressing snapshot of a moment in time when things changed. It captures, briefly, that moment affecting some characters long used to the old way of doing things. It's one of those movies. It does its job with visual aplomb. Michael Mann is a very good photographer, see. What he is not, perhaps, is a director who gets anywhere beyond photography, a director who can sustain the artifice of time passing and the emotional toll time passing inflicts. Johnny Depp is handsome and enigmatic. Marion Cotillard is beautiful and wildly effective. Christian Bale is taut and dispensable. I bet this film would work great as a graphic novel. Inglorious Basterds, however, is an event that takes the artifice and mischievousness of cinema to its logical, regal end. Time passes. Emotions are glibly felt. There is blood and explosion and gunfire and stabbings and scenes rendered tenuous, tight with expectation. There is beauty and destruction and the destruction of beauty which is itself beautiful. It is fanciful and ingenious and a far better thing than anything Tarantino has done since Pulp Fiction or Reservoir Dogs. There is a moment where characters banter back and forth in quotes from WWII movies produced after WWII. Each actor inhabits their character completely. It is bizarre and stupid and completely unnecessary. This is a movie as movie for the movies. And I'll never watch it again. Forget it. That would be a waste of time.

Quiet the snow brings.

Puppies, Kittens & Puerto Ricans

A Cold Morning in Chinatown