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Sue Trowbridge lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is the co-owner of an independent record label, 125 Records, and web diva of interbridge.com.
Feedback: loudfan@gmail.com (Please use my interbridge e-mail address instead if you know you're in my whitelist.) more weblog:
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08.31.04 flags
Even when you're way past the stage of wondering what you're going to be when you grow up, do you ever find yourself thinking about what it would be like to have a different career? I do, sometimes, especially after spending a long day pondering such weighty issues as whether I should put the menu bar on the left-hand side of the page, the top, or -- if I'm feeling especially daring -- on the right. And should I go with 14-point Verdana or 12-point Georgia for the body typeface? Decisions, decisions.
Lately, I've decided that the most boring job in the world is not web designer, but flagman. There is some kind of construction job going on in my neighborhood that involves digging up pipes under the street, and as a result, one lane of traffic is closed during the day. Two flagmen (or, in rare cases, flagwomen) stand at opposite ends of the work zone, holding not flags but signs with "Stop" on one side, "Slow" on the other. They nod at each other, signaling when to turn over their signs and let the cars flow through in either the northbound or southbound direction.
The flagmen are isolated from the rest of the crew, so there's no one to talk to. I assume they can't wear headphones or carry radios on the job (I've never seen any), so there's no entertainment. Maybe they look for out-of-state license plates, or count the number of red Hondas that pass by. I assume the crew members take turns being flagmen, since the faces seem to change from day to day, but to me, even one daylong shift would be unbearably hard to take. I would literally ache for any kind of mental diversion. It's a job that, because of its very simplicity, seems like it would be unbearably hard to do.
08.29.04 tab
Because I have promised you, my loyal readers, that I shall report all of my brushes with celebrity, here is the latest: I was at a party last night with Tab Hunter. Yes, the Tab Hunter. He seems like a very affable guy; he was even happy to talk about "Grease 2" with a young woman who loved that much-maligned film in her youth.
08.27.04 there were no towels
After a 30-year run, I think it's safe to say that "Beach Blanket Babylon" is as much a part of San Francisco as cable cars, fog and endlessly searching for a parking space. While it's generally considered something for tourists, it has sort of a sacred reputation here -- when the Chronicle revisited it a few months ago, it got the paper's highest rating, the Wildly Applauding Little Man. Despite having spent seven years here, I had never seen "BBB"; indeed, all I really knew about it was that it featured lots of big hats -- everybody knows about the hats -- and Snow White. Did you know that the infamous Snow White singing "Proud Mary" number from the 1989 Oscars was lifted directly from "BBB" (they added Rob Lowe for star power)? It's true. Everyone hated that bit, and yet "BBB" lingers on. The city even renamed the stretch of Green Street where the theater running the show sits "Beach Blanket Babylon Boulevard."
So it was about time I saw it. I was sort of surprised by the theater's lack of a hard liquor license, which I found out when I tried to order a gin and tonic (I wound up having iced tea instead). Shouldn't you enjoy a cocktail or two before watching Snow White boogie down? I think so.
What is there to say about "BBB" that hasn't been said before? It's a fast-paced 90 minutes, loaded with pop cultural references, some up-to-the-minute (Ashton and Demi, Bill Clinton's book), some not (John Travolta in a white disco suit? Whaa?). The hats were eye-popping; despite the show's long run, the costumes are obviously kept in pristine condition. The performers are all remarkably talented and energetic. And yet... "BBB" is, well, kinda stupid. It's not really all that funny. Snow White is played as a living doll, with molded plastic hair and stiff arm movements, making it hard to get too involved with her quest for true luuuuuv. At the end, and I hope I'm not spoiling anything for those of you who haven't seen it, she finds love in the arms of Elvis Presley and comes out in a wedding dress and unbelievably elaborate hat which opens up to reveal the seven dwarves. It's sort of like biting into a piece of cake that's 95% icing -- just too much. And where the heck were the beach blankets? Still, at least now I can say I've seen it.
Meanwhile, in another part of town, a far less glamorous show with absolutely no hats, songs, costume changes or even sets is doggedly going into its fifth month, having been held over five times. If there's any justice, Brian Copeland's "Not A Genuine Black Man" will be playing for at least 30 more years. It's at The Marsh, a tiny theater on Valencia St. in the Mission, where it has attracted sell-out crowds since it opened in April.
I'm a fan of one-man shows, and in my opinion, Copeland is right up there with the best performers I've seen, such as the late Spalding Gray and the thankfully very much alive Josh Kornbluth. Copeland, a local radio personality, starts the show by talking about a letter he once received, accusing him of not being a genuine black man. (He's upper-middle class, speaks grammatically and even likes "Star Trek.")
For the next two hours, Copeland addresses the question of what that really means, and takes the audience on a harrowing, moving journey through his life, including his abusive (and often absent) father, a bout with depression that leads to a suicide attempt, and, in the central arc of the show, the story of his family's move to San Leandro in the early 1970s. This East Bay suburb, now thoroughly integrated, was once a bastion of segregation. If you thought cross-burnings, racist policemen (Copeland's encounter with a local cop when he was a child of 8 is astounding) and outright housing discrimination only existed in the Deep South and not in the "liberal, tolerant" Bay Area, think again.
But Copeland is also an incredibly funny man, and I laughed out loud dozens of times. He's a gifted actor, able to conjure up his elegant and dignified mother, his take-no-guff grandma, his 8-year-old self, and numerous bit parts (a bored waitress, a sinister landlord) with ease. I was captivated from start to finish, sorry when it ended, and joined the audience afterwards in a lengthy, enthusiastic and thoroughly well-deserved standing ovation.
It wouldn't surprise me if this piece eventually moves to a bigger theater, but see it now, while you can sit just a few feet away from Copeland and take it all in at close range. If you're in the Bay Area, go see this show. If you're not, I hope that when you come to town as a tourist, "Not A Genuine Black Man" (or something else by Copeland) will be playing. Trust me, you won't even miss the hats; this is the real San Francisco treat.
08.26.04 the war is over
Five hundred issues after it began in 1995, glenn mcdonald's The War Against Silence has ended with an entry appropriately named "A Truce." Although I sometimes found the column infuriating, inscrutable or just downright bizarre (I never understood how someone could love Roxette and Aube), I always enjoyed his thoughtfulness and plain old good writing. It's interesting to note that his column is ceasing its regular schedule just a few days after his wedding. Buying and writing about that many CDs every single week seems like the pursuit of a single man, and, perhaps also, a younger man; I know I feel perfectly sated with the 10-12 CDs I buy every year, whereas in the past, I consumed at a much more relentless rate.
My one, selfish regret is that glenn never chose to write about any of 125's releases. We put out records by artists he'd reviewed in the past -- Jill Olson, Anton Barbeau, the Loud Family, Statuesque -- but alas, they've come and gone without a word. (He has been a good customer, though, so I'll grant him that.) Somehow, in the back of my mind, I always felt that we would have made it as a label, really been good enough, if we'd gotten into TWAS. I mentioned it to several of my friends as one of my goals, my milestones. Despite that, though, I wish him and his lovely new wife (has she changed her name to Bethany mcdonald? -- the lower case moniker is his legal name, by the way) all the happiness in the world.
08.25.04 fashion victim
Marketplace correspondent Lisa Napoli made me shudder yesterday with her snarky report on the model car that we drive. Apparently, the automaker has boosted the sticker price for the second time in six months due to high consumer demand. Napoli compares the automobile to the dreaded Ugg boots, adding, "Welcome to a world where people spend $21,000 on a fashion statement."
All I can say is, thank goodness the look of the car has changed completely since we bought ours (at a discount, mind you -- there were plenty of them on the lot a couple of years ago). I wouldn't want to drive something that made a "statement" like, "Hey, I was willing to wildly overpay for my car!"
I will add that driving a hybrid car in Berkeley gets you about as much attention as wearing Birkenstocks or having a pierced nose -- that is to say, none at all. That fancy Japanese technology may turn heads in Arizona or Virginia, but here, it's more common than tie-dyed T-shirts on Telegraph Avenue.
08.24.04 today's random quotes
"I am so offended in this country that we can find close to a quarter of a trillion dollars for a failed war in Iraq, yet you have a body count each and every day in this country in urban centers across America, where increased gang violence is running rampant in every section of this country, where you have 14-year-olds killing 15-year-olds with the same weapons of war that are being used in Iraq, and we hear nothing from this (Bush) administration."
-San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom on KQED's Forum
"People get more beautiful as they get more famous."
-Elycia Rubin, author of Frumpy to Foxy in 15 Minutes Flat
08.23.04 food fight
As I have noted here before, I'm not much of a cook. I don't dislike preparing food, but I don't have the interest or the patience to make anything other than pretty basic fare -- unlike, say, my mom, who has taken cooking classes and delights in trying new recipes. And yet, we don't go out to eat a lot either, mainly due to the calories and the expense.
But during a recent visit by an out-of-town friend, I had the opportunity to go a little crazy and eat out several times in a row. Once again, I was reminded what a great food town this is.
At Cha Cha Cha on Haight St., we enjoy sublime fried potatoes with gobs of savory aioli, also delicious with the accompanying baguette -- yummy enough to make me covet the "I Love Carbs" T-shirts I saw on a young woman in San Francisco this morning. In North Beach, we eat pasta at Sciuè Sciuè, an unassuming gem of a place which looks like you've stepped into a deli until you are led upstairs, via an incredibly inconspicuous staircase, to the cozy dining room. I order something really simple, a spaghetti alla pizzaiola with chopped fresh tomatoes, oregano and garlic, but the pasta is al dente, the tomatoes wonderfully ripe, the ingredients perfectly proportioned. Only the bread is blah -- a little dry and tasteless -- but the garlic and olive oil spread is savory enough to make me wolf it down anyway.
On Sunday morning, I forego my usual bowl of Kashi and we have brunch at a little place called the Sunny Side Cafe. It's literally been years since I've eaten pancakes at a restaurant, but I opt for a short stack of the peach pancakes, served with real maple syrup. I'm used to my own heavy 'cakes, but these are unbelievably light and fluffy, studded with big chunks of fresh, juicy peaches. Hours after the meal, I am craving more of those pancakes. How do they make them like that?
I gained three pounds in four days, and if history is a guide, it will take me a lot longer to lose 'em than it did to gain 'em. But it was worth it.
08.18.04 sue's second-run movie review corner
I had my suspicions about "Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy," so I urged Joe to wait until it came to the Parkway so we could at least see it on the cheap. Alas, those suspicions were confirmed; "Anchorman" could just as well have been called "VH1's I Love the 70s: The Movie." Once you get past the wide lapels and ties, kitschy music ("Afternoon Delight"), and celebrity cameos, you're left with a fairly limp comedy with a paucity of laughs and likable characters.
I didn't find any of the big set pieces in "Anchorman" (the "rumble" between groups of rival news teams; female anchor Veronica's attempt to cover the birth of a panda; Ron's jazz flute solo at a nightclub) particularly funny. And yet, before you accuse me of going all Mr. Cranky on you, I will say that "Anchorman" is far better than "Dodgeball". Steve Carell walks away with the movie as the unbelievably stupid newsman Brick Tamland; he plays the part with a goofy enthusiasm that's hard to resist, and several of his lines ("I killed a guy with a trident!" and "I love lamp" in particular -- take my word for it, they make sense in context) did manage to wring a chuckle or two out of me.
But Will Ferrell's egotistical anchorman just wasn't interesting enough to sustain the 90 minutes of this film, and I say that as someone who loved Ferrell on "Saturday Night Live." I never cared whether or not he and his icy love interest Veronica (Christina Applegate) would reach their goal of making it to network TV. It's hard to feel any affection for a guy who's such a clueless boob that he'll read anything put on his TelePrompTer, even if it's a four-letter word that would have the FCC up in arms in no time.
Note to people who might see this movie and are as squeamish as I am about violence done to animals, even cartoonish violence involving an obviously stuffed dog: Baxter is alive and well at the end of the film.
08.16.04 sizeism
Well, it turns out that the problem I described yesterday wasn't with the Javascript, it was with the size of my graphics -- a symmetrical 170x35 pixels, which Norton apparently red-flagged as a Bad Size. Read more about it here. When I chopped off a few pixels, making them 167x33, they displayed perfectly. What a headache! Now I'm going to have to make sure all of my web graphics are some odd size. I suspect that Norton-using web surfers can't see the album graphics on 125Records.com, since they're all 125x125 pixels, another forbidden size. Maybe I'll look into a job as an airline fueler or landscape service worker -- anything that takes me away from these demon machines.
08.15.04 alternate careers
Sometimes, I hate computers and want to smash them. I start considering other occupational fields I could have chosen, such as shoe repair, sign painting or tree trimming. Anything that doesn't involve computers. This is such a time.
As my 17 regular readers may remember, I recently started working with DreamWeaver in an effort to take my web design to the next level. One of the things DW does is make it really, really easy to do Javascript rollovers -- you know, when you mouse over a picture, usually a link, and it changes color or something. It's not terribly useful, but it's decorative, and when you spend as much time as I do making web sites, anything that adds a bit of fun or visual appeal is always welcome. So a couple of days ago, I put up this site for one of my clients who wanted a look appropriate for the setting of her books, which take place in a slightly fictionalized Mendocino County, on the chilly, foggy northern California coast.
If you mouse over the links ("biography," "the series," etc.) they turn gray. Not super-exciting or anything, but like I said, it's easy to do, so I did it. I checked the site in four different browsers, and it looked fine. But my client was unable to see the links at all -- with or without the rollovers -- on her computer. After sending e-mails back and forth and talking on the phone, Joe finally drove over to check it out (fortunately, she lives closer by than any of my other clients).
So it turns out she is running Norton Internet Security, which inserts its own code into web pages, thus screwing up properly validated Javascript. Can you believe it?? You can read more about it here, or do a Google search on "SymError." The only way to stop it, apparently, is for the user to disable Norton's ad blocking feature.
I'm tearing my hair out trying to figure out if there's a fix for this. Blah.
Then there's the emergency trip to the vet clinic in Oakland with Sunday hours that took up 90 minutes of our afternoon; we weren't able to remove on our own the gigantic tick that had taken up residence on Hobie's backside, so a tech did it for us. (At least it only cost $5). Oh, what a day it's been.
On a happier note, the wonderful Michael Chabon wrote this ode to Berkeley that appeared in today's Chronicle. It so perfectly captures the sense of this place that I urge you to read it. "All of the things that drive me crazy are the very things that make this town worth knowing, worth putting up with, worth loving and working to preserve."
08.14.04 beans, beans, beans
Here is a lovely article from the San Francisco Chronicle about the event I wrote about in the Aug. 9 entry.
Also, thanks to Rog and Janet for sending me black bean salad recipes. I haven't had a chance to try Janet's yet, but they are fairly similar, so I'm sure hers is delicious too. Here is a recipe I found online that is very similar to the one she sent me (hers omits the tomato). Rog's is from the current issue of Cooking Light, so they'd probably sue me if I put it online. But it's extremely tasty, and, I'm sure, more than worth the cover price of the magazine!
Joe's new Olympics girlfriend is Inga Hammond.
What a day: synchronized diving and Yorvit Torrealba hitting the game-winning home run for the Giants!
08.13.04 monkeys & booze
Some people can post a link about monkeys and get tons of responses; others of us beg all 17 of our readers (according to yesterday's stats) to come up with a lunch idea, and get nada. Do you know what I had for lunch today? A Pop-Tart. So there. I can only imagine that people were intimidated by my pickiness.
By popular demand, here is the pink drink recipe.
Coconga for 4
4 jiggers white rum
2 lemons or limes (strained juice)
4 heaping tsp. Coconga mix (or Coco Lopez, since I am fairly certain Coconga mix no longer exists)
1 egg white (or powdered egg white, if you're worried about salmonella)
1 to 1 1/2 oz. coffee cream (note: my grandfather always skipped this)
1 jigger Grenadine
6 to 8 cubes of ice
Mix in Waring blender.
Also, from my grandmother, here is the origin of the drink. She and my grandfather were in Naples, FL -- probably in the early 1950s -- visiting my grandfather's sister Ethel's brother-in-law, Billy Uihlein, who owned the Schlitz brewery in Milwaukee. He served the drink and gave my grandfather the recipe, since he had enjoyed it so much.
Here is a link about monkeys.
08.12.04 make my lunch
Remember "The Jetsons"? The thing I covet the most from their futuristic world is not the robot maid or the flying cars; it's that little capsule they took in lieu of meals. It came whizzing out of a tube, presumably providing them with vitamins, minerals, and a pleasant feeling of fullness.
I would be thrilled if I could take a handy pill for most meals, and then, a couple times a week, enjoy something really delicious from Rivoli or Gregoire, the two best eateries in the Bay Area, in my opinion. (Plus, at least once a week, a visit to the incomparable Arinell's pizzeria). What I would like to replace are the workmanlike meals I prepare and consume every day.
The most annoying meal of the day is lunch. Unlike some people, I am perfectly happy to eat the exact same breakfast every day (Kashi GoLean with Rice Dream and Trader Joe's frozen berry medley, along with eight ounces of orange juice) -- in fact, I look forward to it every morning. Life would be easier if I could find an equally repeatable lunch.
For a long time, I ate a daily meal consisting of a cup of Nile Spice soup, a whole-wheat roll and carrot sticks, but my palate has changed over the years as I've switched to a lower-sodium diet and now I find myself unable to eat commercially prepared soups. I've tried Clif Bars (too sweet to be a satisfying lunch); Trader Joe's sushi (surprisingly not bad, but not filling enough); frozen entrees (too expensive, and, again, too salty); Subway sandwiches (unlike Jared, the only one I eat is the Veggie Delight, which gets boring fast); Yves' veggie dogs (better as an occasional treat); and fruit salad (too dependent on what's in season). My parents eat yogurt for lunch -- I tried that for a while, but I was always ravenous by 3 PM. Joe suggested I eat a second bowl of Kashi, but that's just overkill.
Anyone have any ideas for a quick, easy and tasty vegetarian lunch? What's your noontime meal? Should I start lobbying the maker of Hobie's kibble to start producing human chow?
08.11.04 dear crooks: please stay away
At six A.M., we were awakened by the howling of a coyote. It sounded like what I imagine an asthmatic dog with a hot poker being shoved up its butt would sound like -- in other words, not restful. After 5-10 minutes, mercifully, it quieted down. "Coyote In the City" -- coming this fall on HBO.
Perhaps we could hire the coyote to guard our property. It's been Crime Central around here lately, with multiple car break-ins and even the robbery of an apartment. This, naturally, has prompted much hand-wringing on the part of nervous residents; should a guard be hired to patrol the area, despite the cost? Should security cameras be installed?
Finally, this week, action was taken. Large signs reading PROPERTY UNDER SURVEILLANCE were posted at the entrances. I'm sure the local criminal element is quaking in their boots now! Maybe our national security forces could take a tip from us and start posting COUNTRY UNDER SURVEILLANCE signs at all the U.S. borders. Beware, potential terrorists, someone is watching you -- and it just might be a coyote.
08.09.04 the indelible eyes
Sunday night, North Beach, San Francisco. A pretty young woman on stilts beckons people into a small storefront restaurant. This place has a history -- Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe ate their first meal as a married couple here, and Carole Lombard and Clark Gable enjoyed trysts in a room upstairs. Tonight, we're here for a benefit performance, in support of San Francisco underground theater group Thrillpeddlers and their new home, The Hypnodrome.
This fall, the Hypnodrome will be the home of Shocktoberfest!!! (note three exclamation points), which will bring the blood-spattered tradition of Grand Guignol to San Francisco audiences. I don't have a particular affection for the Grand Guignol; in fact, I didn't know much about it until a few weeks ago, when I transcribed a tape of an English translation of Maurice Renard's "L'Amant de la morte" for my client and pal Eddie Muller. The play is about a man who becomes obsessed with his best friend's wife, Simone, and tries to hypnotize her into leaving her husband and falling in love with him. Eddie's mandate is to make this already freaky play "even weirder"; it'll be fascinating to see what he comes up with. His play will share the bill with two other macabre Grand Guignol tales adapted for the American stage.
The restaurant, an Italian joint known as Amelio's back in DiMaggio's day, is now a Bolivian tapas bar. When we entered, a woman rubber-stamped two cartoonish blood-red eyes on the back of our hands, to designate that we had ordered dinner. Over the next few hours, some good old-fashioned San Francisco freakiness ensued, the strangest of which was a performance by this contortionist, who had set up his stage/table just a few inches away from me. I found it fascinating, and the guy was unbelievably good at what he does -- it's sort of like extreme yoga -- but having the foot of a loinclothed performer swoop right past my face is a little disconcerting, to say the least.
There's also music by chanteuse Jill Tracy, a nicely creepy one-act play by Doug Wright, tales of outrageous and gory crimes from San Francisco's past recounted by Eddie, and -- the highlight -- a visit to the back room, Lombard and Gable's former hangout. Here, local mentalist and magician Bob Taxin performed a variety of tricks. The best one involved a butcher block with five slots in it, a large knife, and four stiff cardboard pieces cut to the same dimensions as the knife. A woman (Jill's mom!) had to put the cardboard and the knife (blade-up) into the slots, then cover each with a small brown paper bag, so all were concealed. Taxin swept his hand over the bags, paused theatrically, and brought his hand down with a bang onto one of the bags. Luckily, the knife wasn't there, just a harmless bit of cardboard. He repeated this trick until only two bags were left standing. By that time, I think we were all sweating, Taxin included -- he made a big show of mopping his brow with a handkerchief before smashing down one of the two bags. He'd avoided the knife! His hand was unscathed!
Whether he really intuited which bag held the knife or there was some kind of trickery involved is immaterial; it was a darn good show. Today, over 24 hours after I got my hand stamped, the eyes remain; they have proven impervious to liquid and bar soap alike, even the ministrations of a stiff nail brush. I'm an old hand (har har) at removing stamps on my skin, but these are tenacious. Perhaps they will remain there for days to come, a reminder of a windy, fog-shrouded August night in San Francisco.
08.08.04 the filthiest place on earth
Jeff writes, "[N]ot only do I have zero interest in 'reality' TV, I haven't paid any attention to what's on right now. So for all I know, Sue could making up every last word, or writing about quantum physics or fifteenth-century farming techniques." Jeffrey, believe me, I couldn't "make up" reality TV. I mean, consider these absolutely real shows: "Amish in the City" (Amish teens travel to L.A. and cohabitate with "average American" kids to find out if they're tempted to leave farm life behind); "The Littlest Groom" (dwarf looking for a mate must choose between little women and statuesque gals); "I Want A Famous Face" (people have plastic surgery so they can resemble celebrities like Brad Pitt or Kate Winslet, with cameras there to document it all); and "Are You Hot?" (attractive men and women don skimpy swimwear to have their figure flaws picked apart by laser-pointer-wielding B-listers like Lorenzo Lamas). The shows I watch, "The Amazing Race" (couples compete for a million dollars by completing tasks in exotic locales like Egypt and Argentina) and "Last Comic Standing" (kind of like "American Idol" for stand-ups), are fairly mild in comparison.
Sure, you can try to invent new reality concepts. How about "Surprise -- I'm Not Really Dead!," in which a person's family and friends are told he's passed on -- and hidden cameras are there when, at the funeral, the "dead body" walks into the room! Mucho hilarity ensues. Or "Who Wants To Adopt A Healthy White Infant?," where six infertile couples compete in baby-related tasks like speed-diaper changing and car-seat installation (preferably while sleep-deprived) in order to win the ultimate prize -- a middle-class Caucasian teen mom's newborn child.
But no matter how crazy your ideas are, some TV executive will surpass it. Pesonally, I'm looking forward to Lifetime's "How Clean Is Your House," which debuts in September. "The Producers of 'American Idol' are looking to clean up the filthiest homes in America," reads the casting call, which is illustrated with photos of a grimy oven and a dirt-encrusted sink. "If you know of an extremely filthy house in desperate need of a deep cleaning... call us today!" I only hope that the show's two hosts come bearing laser pointers.
08.06.04 the real world
By popular demand, the pink drink recipe will be posted here as soon as I can get it from my mom (who is currently out of town at this conference). As Amy suggested, it does sound a bit like the Pink Lady, but with a tropical twist.
Longtime readers know of my unfortunate addiction to reality television shows. One thing that makes these programs especially frustrating to me is that my favorite competitors never seem to make it to the winner's circle; someone truly odious like Flo or Brian always seems to take it all. Last summer was perhaps the worst ever in this regard: the screamingly unfunny Dat Phan won "Last Comic Standing," beating my comedy boyfriend Dave Mordal (who didn't even make it into the finals).
This year, however, not only do I not hate anyone currently still in "The Amazing Race" (though I'm not crazy about rude pizza boys Marshall & Lance), but the top three in "Last Comic Standing" are all funny, and one of them has been my pick since the very first episode. That would be Alonzo Bodden, a powerfully built ex-jet mechanic from Queens who has approached this comedy competition the way a top-flight Olympic athlete approaches a pivotal meet -- with an almost frightening amount of preparation, intensity and focus. He's so smooth and professional as he works the stage that he frequently makes the other contestants look like amateurs at open-mike night. And, oh yes, he's freakin' hilarious.
In his bio, 'Zo describes a pivotal experience: "I was working at the Brea Improv and in the middle of my set, and a guy had a seizure. After the paramedics carted him off, I went up there, did 10 killer minutes on seizures and then got back to my set and the show kept rolling. It was great." Now that's a show business pro at work.
I'm not going to try to reproduce any of his jokes here because so much of it is in the delivery, but seriously, folks, you should tune in to the Tuesday night finals and experience the comedy juggernaut that is Alonzo Bodden. I'll go out on a limb here and say that Alonzo will be the Last Comic Standing and the somewhat irritating but strangely endearing underdogs Mirna and Charla will win "The Amazing Race," and I will finally have found my reality show happy endings.
08.05.04 in the pink
The talk of drinks on the message board makes me think about a beverage that my late grandfather used to serve. My grandparents frequently entertained, and this particular libation, known as "the pink drink," was a favorite. It contained something called Coconga mix (apparently akin to Coco Lopez), fresh lime juice, grenadine, egg white, sugar, ice, and rum, all mixed together in a blender. I was too young to taste the concoction, but I have memories of watching my grandfather man the blender, handing tumblers of the frothy beverage to his friends.
Somehow, the pink drink came up in conversation when I was visiting my parents a few months ago. My mother had a handwritten copy of the recipe taped inside one of her cookbooks, and I decided I would finally taste the drink. It was not easy finding Coco Lopez in Grand Rapids; after checking numerous party stores and supermarkets, my dad tracked it down at a specialty wine retailer. My mom whipped them up (I think she left out the egg white due to salmonella concerns), and we served the finished drink with a festive garnish of a lime slice and a tiny paper umbrella. It wasn't bad, a little overly sweet; it won't replace the mojito in my heart any time soon.
What's interesting is that as far as I can determine, my grandfather created the drink. I went to a bookstore and tried looking it up in one of those "1,001 Cocktails for All Occasions" books, but it wasn't there. I've attempted to Google the ingredients; no dice. How did this mysterious beverage come to be? Did it take months of experimentation before the final proportions were decided upon? It's funny how things you take for granted in your youth can seem so enigmatic later on.
08.04.04 one for the road
I have never drunk a martini. They seem like they would be too strong for me. However, I'm fascinated by the fact that the martini glass has become an iconic image meaning, "This is a place where you can get a drink" -- sort of like the old striped barber poles used to signify "come on in and get a haircut."
When I'm out and about, I can't help but notice all of the martini glasses on signs all around me. How do these myriad watering holes survive? And while the martini has a sophisticated air about it, making one think of tuxedos and Cole Porter songs, I strongly suspect that far more Buds and PBRs than gin-and-vermouth concoctions are sold in these places. And yet, the martini glass remains the undisputed king of tavern signage.
My three favorite mixed drinks -- the mojito, gin and tonic, and White Russian -- are served in ordinary tumblers. Everyone recognizes the shape of a wine glass, but I guess wine tends to be considered more of a drink for restaurants or wine bars than the corner saloon. Beer bottles? That tall silhouette could be a brew, could be a soda or even a ketchup bottle. So the martini glass reigns supreme.
For years, I have thought it would be fun to document martini glass signage. At left is the first in what may turn into a series. I've never set foot in the Hotsy Totsy Club, but I've long been a fan of their sign -- the old-fashioned neon, the decorative zigzags that strive to give a feeling of electricity and excitement, the crisscrossed letters, and the short-stemmed martini glass (complete with olive -- most signs seem to feature the small ovoid fruit, but others take a more stylized approach and depict the glass alone). The club, which opens for business at 6 AM, seems to be a place where serious drinking is done; I imagine it caters to a careworn group of regulars who enter the tavern each day, barely noticing the sign above them.
08.03.04 see the sea
I have never quite figured out how to reconcile my desire to visit exotic locales with my hatred of the inconvenience of travel. Sure, I'd love to see the world, but it's so much trouble to pack, find a good air fare, book a decent hotel, etc. Then, a couple of years ago, I heard about The World of ResidenSea, a floating condominium community. The ship constantly circumnavigates the globe, stopping at glamorous ports of call like St. Tropez, Nassau, Sharm El Sheikh, Zanzibar and Rangoon.
And here's the best part: because you own your shipboard apartment, you get to see the sights and still sleep in your own bed every single night. I couldn't believe it! This was the lifestyle I'd always dreamed of!
Cable's Travel Channel is currently airing a fawning documentary about The World, which is well worth checking out if you love peeking at the lifestyles of the super-rich. The World, it turns out, offers its residents every luxury, from walk-in closets, marble bathrooms and high-speed Internet access in their cabins, to a Swiss spa, four-star restaurants and a putting green with real grass. Peek at The World's caviar fridge and well-stocked wine cellar! Visit the onboard jewelry store, with $12 million worth of inventory! Take in a first-run movie in the ship's theater!
I was ready to start saving my pennies for my own ResidenSea home (the average price of an apartment is $2 million, and then there are the $60,000 to $270,000 annual maintenance fees), until I realized that the special only talked about human residents, not canine ones. Who wants to live at sea if you can't take your faithful companion along? Until a ship comes along that features a dog-walking area as well as a full-size tennis court and helipad, I'm staying on dry land.
08.02.04 it stinks!
Jay Sherman's catchphrase came to mind during my most recent moviegoing experiences.
First, a word about "The Village." After reading the reviews by Roger Ebert and David Edelstein, I was pretty sure it was something I wouldn't be interested in seeing. My track record with M. Night Shyamalan is mixed; I liked "Signs" (partly because I'm a sucker for any film about extraterrestrials), thought "Unbreakable" was O.K., and found "The Sixth Sense" unspeakably boring. Of course, one of the problems with "Sense" was that I'd inadvertently found out the twist ending from the first paragraph of a review in the East Bay Express (one that generated tons of hate mail, unsurprisingly). I'm sure the final revelation was shocking to the audiences who had no idea what was coming, but since I knew, I found the whole thing to be a big yawn.
Now everyone knows that a Shyamalan movie is going to have a twist. People go to his films to see if they can figure out how they will end. Frankly, it would be more surprising at this point if he made a movie with no surprise ending (perhaps his forthcoming adaptation of the novel Life of Pi will be a bit of a departure). "The Village" didn't have an inherently interesting storyline, so I chose to give it a pass, but I was still curious enough to look up the spoiler. (If you want to know, I recommend a visit to MoviePooper.)
So what did I choose to spend my time and money on instead of "The Village"? "The Bourne Supremacy" and "Dodgeball."
I really enjoyed 2002's "The Bourne Identity," the first in this Matt-Damon-as-amnesiac-spy series based on Robert Ludlum's thrillers. With a pleasingly intricate plot, a buff Damon, tons of gorgeous European scenery, a nice love story and some killer car chases, what wasn't to like? Unfortunately, "The Bourne Supremacy" is a pale shadow of its forerunner. Director Doug Liman has been replaced by Paul Greengrass, who filmed the entire movie in shaky-vision; the camerawork seems to have been done by Parkinson's-afflicted caffeine addicts. The great actress Joan Allen is given a one-note role as a CIA agent on Bourne's trail. And since the focus is on nonstop action instead of Bourne's identity and budding relationship with Marie (Franka Potente), "Supremacy" lacks the human interest of the first film. If you go, be sure to take some Dramamine with your super-sized Coke.
At least "Supremacy" has Damon's pecs; "Dodgeball" has a lackluster Vince Vaughn and an insanely overacting Ben Stiller. This lame-brained send-up of sports movies probably became such a big hit because it appeals to the same folks who love Three Stooges shorts; personally, 90 minutes of watching a ragtag team of underdogs and losers get hit in the crotch with red balls had me longing for the comparatively sophisticated comedy of "Old School" or "Starsky and Hutch." Earns extra minus points for killing off its best character. If you go, force yourself to stay through the end credits for a final scene; it's not particularly funny, but don't you feel smart when you're the only one still sitting in the theater and you're rewarded with an extra gag or two?
All content © 2004 by Sue Trowbridge