Panoramic Videos From My Birthright Trip To Israel (Set To Ryan Braun Home Run Calls).
Melanie Oudin’s match at the U.S. Open was one of the most enthralling sporting events I’ve ever seen live. And I’ve been to many Brewers games. MANY.
![Jennifer Aniston, Aaron Eckhart and co-writer/director Brandon Camp are running out of the set of Love Happens following the final day of shooting. A PA sprints out after them.
PA: GUYS! WAIT!
The three reluctantly stop, and look back over their shoulders.
PA: Where are you going?!?
Eckhart: To whichever tropical island puts me furthest away from this set.
Aniston: To cry. Largely because the colossal failings of my love life have been on very public display for the past decade, but also in part because I made this movie.
Camp: I’m going to find a bar, get a table in the corner and divide my psyche in half. The director part of me will then chastise the writer part of me for scribing such a shitty movie, while the writer part of me criticizes the director part of me for its role in the production of that drivel. Once I’ve done that for a few hours, I’ll set out to put down a 1.75 litre bottle of Black Label—on the studio’s dime, of course.
PA: But we’re not done yet!
Eckhart: [Stepping angrily toward the PA, and growling] What in the hell are you talking about?
PA: Well, first off, we need to do a photo shoot for the movie poster.
Aniston & Eckhart: Nope.
Eckhart: Fuck that.
Aniston: Take a screen grab of some saccharine scene from the movie. The film’s pretty much just a montage of cliché hugs. You’ll find something. That’s my mantra.
PA: Well, ok, but we still need a title.
Eckhart: [To Camp] You never titled this crap?
Camp: I don’t know. I stopped paying attention halfway through the writing.
Eckhart: We have to do this now?
PA: We need it for the movie posters. We’re trying to get them out early, so we can make up for the fact that they’re no doubt going to be bafflingly unoriginal and thus entirely forgettable.
Camp: Well, the movie’s about love-stuff.
Eckhart: There you go. Call it “Love.”
PA: There are dozens of movies with that name.
Eckhart: Hopefully this’ll blend in.
Camp: “Love Actually”?
PA: Dick Curtis did it.
Aniston: “Love In the Time Of Cholera”?
PA, Eckhart and Camp stare silently.
Aniston: [Sighs.] I don’t understand love.
Eckhart: “Love Guru”?
Camp: Fuck you, man. This movie isn’t that bad.
Eckhart: Well, that’s all I got.
Camp: Yeah, I’m tapped out.
PA: But … guys, we still need a title. What am I supposed to do?
Camp: Think of one. I don’t know. Later.
Aniston, Eckhart and Camp get into their cars. Eckhart peels away. Aniston sits at the wheel and cries gently. Camp slowly rolls away.
PA: BUT I’LL GET FIRED IF I GO BACK IN THERE WITHOUT A TITLE!!!
Camp: [Yelling out his window.] Sorry dude! Shit happens!](http://12.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_koqc57Zf1h1qz7i1fo1_400.jpg)
Jennifer Aniston, Aaron Eckhart and co-writer/director Brandon Camp are running out of the set of Love Happens following the final day of shooting. A PA sprints out after them.
PA: GUYS! WAIT!
The three reluctantly stop, and look back over their shoulders.
PA: Where are you going?!?
Eckhart: To whichever tropical island puts me furthest away from this set.
Aniston: To cry. Largely because the colossal failings of my love life have been on very public display for the past decade, but also in part because I made this movie.
Camp: I’m going to find a bar, get a table in the corner and divide my psyche in half. The director part of me will then chastise the writer part of me for scribing such a shitty movie, while the writer part of me criticizes the director part of me for its role in the production of that drivel. Once I’ve done that for a few hours, I’ll set out to put down a 1.75 litre bottle of Black Label—on the studio’s dime, of course.
PA: But we’re not done yet!
Eckhart: [Stepping angrily toward the PA, and growling] What in the hell are you talking about?
PA: Well, first off, we need to do a photo shoot for the movie poster.
Aniston & Eckhart: Nope.
Eckhart: Fuck that.
Aniston: Take a screen grab of some saccharine scene from the movie. The film’s pretty much just a montage of cliché hugs. You’ll find something. That’s my mantra.
PA: Well, ok, but we still need a title.
Eckhart: [To Camp] You never titled this crap?
Camp: I don’t know. I stopped paying attention halfway through the writing.
Eckhart: We have to do this now?
PA: We need it for the movie posters. We’re trying to get them out early, so we can make up for the fact that they’re no doubt going to be bafflingly unoriginal and thus entirely forgettable.
Camp: Well, the movie’s about love-stuff.
Eckhart: There you go. Call it “Love.”
PA: There are dozens of movies with that name.
Eckhart: Hopefully this’ll blend in.
Camp: “Love Actually”?
PA: Dick Curtis did it.
Aniston: “Love In the Time Of Cholera”?
PA, Eckhart and Camp stare silently.
Aniston: [Sighs.] I don’t understand love.
Eckhart: “Love Guru”?
Camp: Fuck you, man. This movie isn’t that bad.
Eckhart: Well, that’s all I got.
Camp: Yeah, I’m tapped out.
PA: But … guys, we still need a title. What am I supposed to do?
Camp: Think of one. I don’t know. Later.
Aniston, Eckhart and Camp get into their cars. Eckhart peels away. Aniston sits at the wheel and cries gently. Camp slowly rolls away.
PA: BUT I’LL GET FIRED IF I GO BACK IN THERE WITHOUT A TITLE!!!
Camp: [Yelling out his window.] Sorry dude! Shit happens!
A few weeks back, I came across information on an installation Italian artist Marco Brambilla had produced for the new Standard Hotel in Manhattan. The commission is a mosaic of seamlessly stitched-together video clips depicting an ascent from Hell to Heaven. As you can see in the aforelinked information, the movie is spellbinding. It’s played on a high-def monitor in each of the hotel’s elevators, thereby enabling people to look at something pretty as they rise from the Hell of the lobby to the Heaven of the roofdeck. Or something. ALL I KNOW is that I was all sorts of hyped to get over and see this puppy.
When I finally had the chance to do so earlier this week, I was even more sorts of disappointed. The screens in each elevator, though crystal clear, are much smaller than the now-legendary information makes it seem, and the music is very faint, and that combo makes the entire project very underwhelming. FURTHERMORE, when I took a ride from the lobby to the 17th floor (as shown above, in a clip with precious little reason for existing), the movie barely made it out of Hell. Those newfangled elevators are too fast for their own good. IN SUMMATION, watch the video on that information page everyone keeps talking about, don’t bother checking it out at the hotel, and hey now, Brambilla directed Demolition Man.
Driver: [Looking down at radio.] Are you kidding me? More Synergia? Fuck that … [Adjusts radio station.] … ok, some song just ended. Let’s see what’s next … YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. MORE SYNERGIA? Why won’t these hacks just go back to Tel Aviv and let musicians with actual talent get some time on the airwaves. I mean, this is ridiculous. It’s all you ever OK THERE’S A HORSE IN MY CAR.
Horse: Neigh.
Driver: NO, THERE IS, THERE’S A HORSE GALLOPING THROUGH MY CAR.
Horse: No no, you’re right. I said “neigh,” not “nay.” Wasn’t disagreeing. Homonyms are tricky.
Because I have unrealistic expectations of life (both my own, and the general idea of it as some awesomeness-providing entity), I’ve often thought about up and moving to some foreign country to immerse myself in an art scene that likely won’t be as robust as the one in which I presently live. And because these unrealistic expectations involve an inexplicably high degree of romanticism, those thoughts often involve up and moving to Paris, because it is a city of love, or something. Then I realize that the man has his foot on my throat I like the F train, and I stay in New York.
Here’s an interesting interview from Uncle, an up-and-coming Brooklyn-based lit mag, with Tory Hoen, a writer who up and moved to Paris. She must not have liked the F train as much as I do.
Risky idea at the moment: Writing fiction. Riskier idea at the moment: Writing experimental fiction that focuses on societal outcasts. Great idea at all times: Wearing a prosthesis that looks like the product of a collaboration between Salvador Dali and Eli Roth.
It was a sad day in both a world I care nothing about, and one I care deeply about. DeWalt, the makers of fine consumer-grade tools such as THE ORBITAL SANDER POPS STILL HASN’T RETURNED, recently announced that 2009 would be their last year as the sponsor of Roush Fenway NASCAR driver Matt Kenseth. They* attribute their decision to “the significant world-wide economic decline in the construction industry,” which means they clearly aren’t spending enough time in W.S. 51151. Nevertheless, whenever a tool company admits it** can no longer afford to do something it has done for years, even if that something is “pay for a car to drive in circles,” an adorable kitten in my soul dies.
*On an unrelated note, I always refer to companies as “they,” even though most editors tell me that they, as a business entity, should be referred to as “it.” A company is a group of people focused on a similar goal. Plural. Eat it.
**HYPOCRISY ALERT In this case, I’m talking impersonally about any number of companies. It feels more appropriate to use the singular. Leave me to my logic.
