Category Archives: Movies, Television and Radio

August 4, 2011 · 10:49 am

Super coincidence

Darn you, Stephen Colbert.

On Tuesday I had jotted a blog idea on the back of an envelope and had only to fill it out. This, you recall, was the day the nation’s policymakers approved the creation of a Super Congress of 12 members, to hammer out solutions to the federal budget crisis later in the year.

I had outlined some thoughts about the notion of a “super” Congress. My mind spun the notion into a “Super-duper” Congress, beneath an “Über” Congress. I swear I wrote this, even if you don’t believe me.

As I fleshed out the outline in a hotel room Tuesday night, I flipped on Comedy Central for a little bedtime snack of super-reality.

I found Stephen Colbert interviewing New York Times Washington bureau chief David Leonhardt. Near the end of the interview, Colbert recited the very notes I had just typed in. Great minds.

You’ll notice, if you follow the link to the interview, you might or might not experience a problem with the audio. On one computer, I could get the audio; on another I could not. I did a search on “why can’t I get audio on Comedy Central?” and learned that plenty of people experience this same technical glitch.

Among them is a young person whose conservative father has cut off all of his/her access to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert; this young person was trying to find a work-around.

As a parent of a former sneaky teen, I sympathize with well-meaning parents who want to control access to inappropriate content. But The Daily Show and The Colbert Report? Seriously?

So, I correct myself. Not “Darn you, Stephen Colbert.”  So he unknowingly stole my idea. He got there first. Plus, he has a few more followers than I do. He has millions. I have hundreds.

I say, “You, go, Stephen Colbert. You’re a super, a super-duper, even an über role model.”

Oh, and I’m not even going to bother with “Satan sandwich.”

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August 3, 2011 · 8:30 am

Poker face up

Last night, I noshed from the free dinner buffet at the Residence Inn, my home away from home. While most hotel guests watched baseball in one corner of the lobby, I had the whole dining area to myself; so I spread out in front of the large flat screen TV. They must have known I was coming because it was set on my favorite reality channel, C-SPAN.

The federal debt proceedings were winding down, just as a Senate Banking subcommittee hearing on mortgage foreclosures was airing from earlier in the day. Ah, my old milieu.

I was a financial services lobbyist for many years, spending countless hours in the House and Senate Banking Committee rooms, attending hearings and staffing witnesses.

On C-SPAN you can always tell who’s staffing the witness. It’s typically the person in the camera shot trying not to flinch as his or her boss delivers testimony to committee members from the witness table.

I find it enormously entertaining to watch these staff people, who aren’t always used to being on camera. Because I’ve been there.

Facial movements can be a powerful study in nonverbal communication, often to the point of distraction. Unlike Congressional staff—those people who work for members of Congress—who are accustomed to being on camera, witness staff often must sit excruciatingly still for the slow-going three-to-five minutes their witness is testifying, then again during the Q&A. Even moving one’s eyeballs in a tight shot can appear exaggerated to millions of viewers.

If you have trouble maintaining a poker face as I do–as I used to–controlling a cringe is one of the hardest things you can do, especially once the prepared statement has been read and questions must be answered. Eye-rolling was not tolerated in our house when I was growing up; this is the rule has served me best in my professional life.

If you ever find yourself in the position as the person-behind-the-person, take some tips from me:

  1. Pretend you’re one of those human statues seen on the streets of European cities. Keep your eyes glued to your witness, not the camera lens or extreme corners of the room.
  2. If you don’t think you can do this for three to five minutes, pretend to take notes, though be aware, if you happen to be follically sparse, looking down too far could bounce a bright beam back at the camera.
  3. When your witness strays shockingly from the talking points or pre-rehearsed answer, fight the wince and keep your eyes open. Lock your jaw, lest it drop abruptly and harm your cause.
  4. Finally, if you have friends in the room, don’t make eye contact. Trust me.

The next time you catch a hearing on C-SPAN, see how many Dos and Don’ts you can add. Or maybe you’ve been there and have your own list?

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August 1, 2011 · 10:30 am

Culinary crack

I don’t do reality.

Reality TV, that is. Count me out of any televised competition that involves voting anyone off, sending anyone home or criticizing anyone to his or her face before millions of viewers. To my mind, while contestants are willing, there’s nothing more disturbing than watching someone being humiliated. Maybe this goes back to the days when I was always picked dead last for teams.

Since the inception of Survivor and American Idol, I’ve proudly shunned these competitions and rolled my eyes at my friends who get all wrapped up in discussing who’s faring how each week, using contestants’ first names as if they were their buddies.

I find it disgusting to hear people talking about “Scotty” and “Taylor” and “Adam” as if we knew them personally, getting into the dynamics of the competitions and the personal attributes that are going to make or break their success.

There but for the grace of God go I.

I am hooked on The Next Food Network Star. Or I guess it’s just called Food Network Star this season. I wouldn’t know; I never watched the previous six seasons. In Season 7, I haven’t missed a single episode, as contestants are called to create signature dishes, work around situational constraints, endure criticism by celebrity chefs and demonstrate their on-camera presentation skills, for the chance to have their own Food Network show.

As it often works with addiction, I was lured into my first taste by a peer. In the late Spring, a friend from church was generating buzz and support for a fellow church member who had auditioned to become one of 15 finalists. Ever loyal to my churchies, I faithfully went online every day and voted for Mary Beth Albright, whom I had met a few times. She’s a dear.

Mary Beth indeed became one of 15 finalists so, when the season debuted June 5th, I was there—in front of the television. My husband and son jumped on the chuckwagon.

Soon our family conversations, even during the week, centered around the fact that Penny was a good cook but wasn’t likeable, that Alicia’s constant crying was going to hurt her chances, that Mary Beth was going to have to punch up her dishes if she’s to survive. When Paula Deen praised Mary Beth for putting buttermilk and panko in her meatloaf, I immediately altered my own meatloaf recipe. We bristle when the judges speak to our girl harshly, even though we know she can take it.

Every Sunday night, at the end of each program hour, our house is filled with gasps and exclamations, shrieks and high fives, as Mary Beth escapes—often narrowly—the judges’ cleaver.

I recognize that my addictive behavior is hurting my relationships. We’ve left family parties early to make it home in time (we’re a DVR-less household) and already, I’m fretting over how to broach this with friends who are hosting us at their beach house Sunday night. Would it be impolite to request an hour in front of their television? Or is it better to leave a day early to make it home in time for the final four?

Seriously, I’ve got the shakes.

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July 25, 2011 · 11:55 am

Behind the music

Mondays seem to be shaping up as human interest blog days, so feel free to skip this if you came today for wordishness.

I’ve been making my way through the “Tell us more about . . .” requests that arose from the seven things I shared about myself upon receiving the Versatile Blogger award.

After telling my party-crasher story a few weeks ago, I had planned to tackle how I could be the child of two musicians without having any musical talent. I just couldn’t come up with a natural angle. Or an answer.

Nonetheless, if you happened to read about how I figuratively shot myself in the foot to get out of a piano lesson, you’ve had a glimpse into the obstacles I’ve encountered on the path to musicianhood.

I’ve told you before, when I was growing up, family parties involved everyone singing around the piano and children performing plays and magic acts for the adults. In retrospect, I suspect their sending us upstairs to rehearse might have been intended to let the adults complete their sentences uninterrupted.

Everyone was encouraged to sing a song. There was no “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” The kids sang Broadway tunes or popular songs of the Fifties, Sixties and Seventies.

I got out of it every time. Besides being painfully shy, I suspected from a young age that I was a terrible singer. One of the first songs I ever learned to sing was “Moon River,” but it has never been performed in front of a live audience.

I idolized the von Trapp Family, the King Family and the Partridge Family. As a member of the Russell family, I secretly wanted to be the girl standing beside the piano, doing a number the way my cousins did, and the way their children continue to do, carrying on the tradition.

In 1971, at age 12, I decided to verify my suspicion objectively. I locked myself in my room with a cassette recorder. I flipped on the radio and sang along to “Behind Blue Eyes” by The Who. I thought I sounded pretty good—until I played it back. For 40 years I’ve prayed that tape no longer exists. I’ll plead here for any family member who might have it in his or her trunk of memorabilia, to please destroy this humiliating relic.

Yesterday, we had a most wonderful afternoon with my cousin Lesley (remember Lesley?) and her family at my Godparents’ house on Maryland’s eastern shore. We ate steamed crabs and silver queen corn, became reacquainted and laughed over stories told and retold. Then we gathered around the piano.

We heard some old family favorites and the evening ended beautifully with two of Lesley’s daughters sharing their superb singing talents. The 18-year-old stunned us with two perfectly performed songs, from our generation, not hers. Then the 10-year-old sang, a cappella, in perfect pitch, “American Pie,” moving some of us to tears. “American Pie” came out in 1971, the same year as “Behind Blue Eyes.”

As I reflected on the day on our drive inland, I was struck by how the young people are keeping alive the music of their parents’ and grandparents’ generations, and I was stirred by how generously they had shared their talent with us.

I was so comfortable in my role as an audience member.

Encore!

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July 15, 2011 · 7:59 am

From here to eternity?

“If you don’t [. . .], I’m going to kick you from here to St. Swithin’s Day!”

That’s an expression I remember, dating many decades back. I don’t recall who said it, nor do I know what it even means exactly.

I think it’s the same as when someone says “from here to next week” or “from here to Sunday.”

The odd thing is, I can’t find any mention of “from here to St. Swithin’s Day” using any available search engine. Could I have been imagining it? The line sounds like something James Cagney would have threatened in a gangster movie. If I can find any reference to it, I’ll be a dirty rat.

The reason this came to mind in the first place—and perhaps you already know it—is that today is St. Swithin’s Day. Or St. Swithun’s, depending on whom you ask.

Shame on me, an Episcopalian for 26 years, for not knowing this Anglo-Saxon bishop and saint.

This 9th century bishop of Winchester and patron saint of the Winchester Cathedral became a saint for working a miracle, as saints do. His had something to do with eggs. I can’t find many details about that either. But that’s not what his feast day is known for.

I like to think of ol’ Swithin as the groundhog of saints.

His feast day, July 15, is an occasion for predicting the weather for the next 40 days. According to legend, whatever the weather today, so it will be for the next six weeks or so. Would that it were true here in Washington; at this posting, it’s sunny and 72 degrees with low humidity.

In case you were wondering, it’s exactly the same in Winchester, England. Spooky.

I’ll leave you with something to recite to your friends today. Just rattle it off and they’ll stare at you blankly from here to St. Swithin’s Day:

St. Swithun’s day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain.
St. Swithun’s day if thou be fair
For forty days ’twill rain nae mare.

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July 12, 2011 · 7:14 am

Party crashers

In May, when I was conferred the Versatile Blogger award from Susan at Coming East, as a condition of receiving the award, I was asked to share seven things about myself. The list generated some requests for stories about these odd factoids. I recently came across the list and realized I hadn’t delivered on my intention to do so.

The item that received the most requests (a total of two) was the statement that my husband and I accidentally crashed a private Hollywood party.

Recounting the story publicly could get me busted and banned if I ever return to Hollywood. I’ll take the chance.

To tell the story right would involve some seemingly trivial details so I’ll get those out of the way briefly. 1. I had bought a very cheap but funky looking handbag to take on the trip. 2. With a lengthy connection at the Salt Lake City airport, I followed a whim and bought a slinky black dress, for no particular occasion.

On our one free evening, I wore my hot new dress to dinner at Wolfgang Puck’s Spago restaurant in Beverly Hills. When Mr. Puck stopped at our table, I tried diplomatically to secure an invitation to the upcoming opening of his newest restaurant in Washington. He asked for my card and said he’d get us added to the invite list.

After dinner, my husband suggested we drive down Sunset Boulevard, as neither of us had ever seen it. We tooled down the Boulevard until we saw major doings. Paparazzi, spotlights, a large crowd gathered for what looked to be a press conference of some sort. We wedged our rented Ford Focus between a Maserati and Ferrari and stepped out to take a peek. Desperate Housewives star Felicity Huffman was making remarks to reporters in front of a night club. The line to get in extended to the end of the block, but somehow that didn’t quite register. My husband suggested we go in and I headed up the stairs to the entrance. Two doormen opened the doors and welcomed us in.

The bartender looked at us as if we were crazy when we tried to pay for our drinks, while shrimp was offered. When I turned around and saw Teri Hatcher, I realized we were at a private party. We put clues together and surmised that the soiree was being thrown by designer Badgley Mischka to celebrate the renewal of Hatcher’s spokesmodel contract.

Little Miss Pathologically Compliant here wanted to leave immediately because I knew we weren’t supposed to be there. As I wondered aloud how we had the doors opened to us in the first place, my husband credited my little black dress and naïve self confidence. I asked him to set down his drink and head for the door before we were discovered.

Too late. People wanted to talk. A woman approached me.

“I love your bag. Is it Prada or Isabella?”

Because I didn’t know Isabella (Fiore) from Isabelli Rossalini. I slipped my DSW special behind me and lied, “Prada.”

“Are you a designer or retailer?,” asked the boutique owner from Newport Beach. “Where are you from?”

I replied, “I’m a lobbyist from Washington, D.C.” Stupid answer, I know, but I had to make up for the lie I had just told. From here on, no more lying.

She asked, “Do you have a card?”

I replied, “Sorry, I just gave my last one to Wolfgang Puck.”

I excused myself, grabbed my husband and sprinted toward the exit.

A woman stopped us. Uh-oh. She said, “Don’t leave without your gifts,” and handed us each a gigantic bag filled with hundreds of dollars worth of Beverly Hills salon certificates, electronics, perfumes and costume jewelry.

We ran to our rental car and sped off, as I phoned our friend Nell, a Beverly Hills native whom we had seen the night before.

“You’ll never believe what we just did,” I squealed, and told her the whole story. We promised her she’d be getting the gift certificates, as we were leaving the next day.

A week later, Nell called me. A friend of hers had told her about being at the Badgley Mischka party.

Nell said, “A friend of mine was there. She said they had great gift bags.”

Her friend replied, “I wouldn’t know. They ran out before I could get one.”

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June 28, 2011 · 8:29 am

Super heroine

I’m a little ashamed to admit, I recently watched cartoons in the middle of the afternoon.

Even as a child, I never had any interest in cartoons or comics about superheroes. I always found them boring and unable to relate to. Maybe there just weren’t any particular superpowers that inspired me.

Yesterday I checked into a hotel, switched on the television and flipped through a few channels. I stopped at PBS, where Word Girl was just coming on. Does anyone know Word Girl?

Sure, it’s a little hokey, as something that might be spoofed on Saturday Night Live. But the premise was enough to draw me in.

Word Girl is a 10-year-old super-powered alien who apprehends villains in her quest to educate her following of 6-to 12-year olds to “power up with power words.” From what I gather, she also likes to ask kids what their favorite words are. What’s not to like?

Perhaps it’s because I’ve become out of touch with children’s programming that I’m unfamiliar, so I apologize for crawling out from under a rock. Apparently, World Girl has been on the world scene for about five years, launched as a spinoff of another children’s program. Each episode features a couple of 11-minute segments, each focused on two words. Yesterday’s words were “tangent,” “imitate,” “confident” and “zest.” Then there’s a little game show style quiz at the end that reinforces that day’s vocab.

There’s a lot of action in this show, as is normal when heroes face villains, which might explain why parents in some countries reject Word Girl as violent. She is syndicated, dubbed and, in some cases, re-named in many countries around the world.

What I like is that the dialogue is very adult. In addition to the featured vocabulary words, lots of big words are thrown around, in context but without explanation. So if your kid isn’t watching Washington Week, she’ll still pick up some heady language from PBS, without the monosyllables and child-centered tones of Barney and Mister Rogers. I wish the wee heroine didn’t have such a piercingly high voice. If I’d invented Word Girl, I’d have cast a more sophisticated voice into the animated role.

Another tidbit I learned while researching my new superhero is that a Halloween costume is available. I wonder if it comes in Big Word Girl sizes.

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June 22, 2011 · 7:45 am

Overseas aid

They say everyone should have a current résumé and a valid passport.

I have both. Neither one gets much love these days. In fact, I just noticed that my passport was renewed five years ago, so it’s at exactly the halfway point of its valid life. The sad part is that neither the passport nor I have left the United States since 2001. It’s waiting, in its safe place, along with all the passports I’ve had since age 10 (when, by the way, I apparently stood at 4 feet, 11 ½ inches tall). My current passport is stiff and uncreased and has a pretty good photo if I do say so myself. I just wish a customs agent could see it.

My last passport saw some action and it shows. In the years before it expired in 2006, I travelled to Switzerland several times, France several times, Greece twice, Spain, Italy, the United Kingdom, the United Arab Emirates, Hong Kong, Indonesia, Thailand, Vietnam and Aruba. I like to look back at the pretty visas inserted by countries that require them.

I still travel often, but to places like Detroit and Tupelo and Cleveland, not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just that my passport and I are itching to fly beyond U.S. borders for a change. We just need a reason. And a lot of money.

I am reminded of an I Love Lucy episode in which the wives tried to raise money to accompany their husbands to Europe. They staged a raffle for a bogus charity called Ladies Overseas Aid. (“We’re ladies, we want to go overseas and boy, do we need aid!”)

This lady needs to come up with a clever way to see the world on someone else’s nickel. Any ideas?

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June 11, 2011 · 8:30 am

Fumez-vous?

Much has already been written about Woody Allen’s new movie, Midnight in Paris, yet all through the movie I thought of things I’d like to write about it. I loved everything about the film, and it spurred so many thoughts and reflections that I definitely plan to see it again.

Midnight in Paris is also about great writers and, because I know I’ll never be one, I’ve deemed it best to let the movie speak for itself. Pretty much.

There’s just one thing around the edges that perplexes me and it almost has nothing to do with the movie per se.

Before seeing the movie yesterday, I had read a lot of reviews, published by critics and posted by friends. I also took a glance at the synopsis in our paper’s Weekend section, just to get a refresher before I went. It was a decent recap that I found helpful. But—and, without checking, I assume this is required by the Motion Picture Association or some self governing body—the summary was followed by the obligatory caveat:  “Contains some sexual references and smoking.”

Smoking? Do we honestly need to warn viewers or the parents thereof that they might see characters smoking?

Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s a Woody Allen movie that essentially takes place in Paris in the 1920s. Do we really think some 12-year-old will see Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald puffing away while listening to Cole Porter play piano in the background, and run to 7-Eleven for her first pack of Marlboros? At twice the price of a movie and Milk Duds?

As a parent, I understand the need to regulate our adolescents’ intake of adult themes. I know there are tweens all over the world telling their parents this very day that they’re seeing Kung Fu Panda 2, when they’re really sneaking into The Hangover 2. But if my kid went to the movies and came home with Ernest Hemingway as his role model, well, maybe that’s a bad example. Let’s just say if my kid came home from Midnight in Paris inspired to be a great writer, by a writer who happened to smoke cigarettes in Paris in the 1920s, is that something that merits a warning?

Hey, I grew up watching Lucy and Ricky Ricardo light up in virtually episode and I never smoked. Jeez.

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June 9, 2011 · 8:57 am

Drill baby

Who would have thought I’d wake up today with a fat lip? Not I, but my endodontist did.

Yesterday I had a bit of dental surgery. I didn’t know it was surgery until I was being sewn up and given a set of post-surgical instructions.

I knew I was to have two root canals. And I knew one would entail entry from the gumline, or apicoectomy/periradicular surgery. I just didn’t think enough about it to build any expectation.

In 51 years, I’ve never had so much as a cavity, so dental work is alien to me. I did have a root canal 24 years ago; I remember it vaguely, with no major trauma associated. Then, eight years ago, while in Arizona, I broke off a front tooth and had it repaired by a hack in Tucson. It turns out shabby work was done to both teeth, numbers 9 and 10 or, as I affectionately call them, the gray one and the brown one. As a result, both had to be re-done.

To sum it up in numbers, I had five shots of Novocaine, two root canals during which three x-rays were taken, six stitches in my gum and, after a $500 discount, a bill of $2,125.00.

To sum it up in words would require some illustrative excerpts.

Not realizing the air conditioning had gone out in the dental office on a 100-degree day, I thought my blazing body and projectile perspiration were symptoms of an anxiety attack. The endodontist brought in a fan and apologized for the heat. I said, “Oh, good, I thought it was just me,” to which he replied, “It’s not that I don’t think you’re hot…” I took his attempt at humor as a compliment.

When the whole procedure was over, the Novocaine had gone to my head, my vision was blurred and, as Bill Cosby once observed, my face was sliding off of my skull and my bottom lip was in my lap.

After receiving my post-operative instructions and a prescription for pain pills, the doctor pronounced me free to go. I asked the nurse, “Would you please hand me my glasses,” to which the doctor replied, “You’re wearing them.”

What? You don’t know the Cosby routine? Have a listen. I finally understand what he was talking about.

By the way, did you know that, when your face is swollen, your wrinkles disappear?

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