“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though.” — Holden Caulfield, Catcher in the Rye

Updated to add the obligatory Onion link: Bunch of Phonies Mourn J.D. Salinger. Pullquote:

“He had a real impact on the literary world and on millions of readers,” said hot-shot English professor David Clarke, who is just like the rest of them, and even works at one of those crumby schools that rich people send their kids to so they don’t have to look at them for four years.

Aspiring comic Rupert Pupkin (Robert DeNiro) has one dream: to meet late-night TV host Jerry Langford (played with startling acuity by Jerry Lewis) and, through him, to achieve fame. The problem: he has no experience, no bookings, no stand-up act… except the one he’s practiced in his mother’s basement for years.

Pupkin doesn’t see that this might be a problem. He believes, with the fervent belief of the slightly mad, that if he can just meet Jerry, everything else will miraculously fall into place. His only friends are similarly starstuck and mad (particularly notable is Sandra Bernhard as another stage-door stalker), and they only reinforce his loony certainty, giving him a curious air of confidence.

Revisiting Scorsese’s underwatched film The King of Comedy, I saw that it was a perfect companion piece to his much-lauded Taxi Driver. Once again, Scorsese and DeNiro conspire to create an indelible portrait of a man obsessed.

Indeed, King of Comedy presents a hellishly complete anxiety by repressing every chance for emotional release; where Taxi Driver offers moments of recognizable violence and vulgarity to relieve the audience’s building tension, King of Comedy simmers with a terrible submerged anger and a deep sense of dread. The plot unfolds with excruciating deliberation and dreadful humor that only Scorsese could deliver. This movie is all about the power of the pathetic and the pathological, and — boy oh boy — does it deliver.

The tiny sniffles that The Fella and I both developed this week have blossomed into full-blown winter colds, giving me a chance to consider the little things that I believe (with a breezy disregard for rational thought) to have actual curative powers:

- hot soup, especially scalding-hot broth with chiles
- ginger ale and its blustery cousin, ginger beer
- buttered toast cut into triangular quarters
- anything eaten in bed from a tray
- NPR, especially “This American Life”
- curling up on the sofa with a fluffy blanket
- rosemary oil
- uncomfortably hot baths
- ghost stories

Though I’m not a big believer in New Year’s resolutions, I’ve arbitrarily chosen this month to reduce my caffeine intake. And for no good reason; I was, after all, restricting myself to a sub-lethal dose.

For about a week now, I’ve been having one enormous homemade cappuccino in the morning, not one in the morning and one in the afternoon. In real-world terms, this means I’ve gone from six-to-eight shots of espresso a day to about four shots. That’s a big change, and explains my recent silence here; without the nervous pounding energy of a near-toxic caffeine load, I don’t feel the urge to typetypetypeohmygodtype.

I’m sure it will return. I think.

Christmas came early ’round these parts!

A few weeks ago, I discovered The Alchemist’s Blog, where Alchemy Gen writes about food and its attendant issues with real thoughtfulness and verve. When I came to her entry asking for tips and tricks on hosting a cookie exchange, of course I waded right in, because who doesn’t like to give advice? Especially advice that lingers lovingly on sweet, sweet cookies and holiday fun?

And that brings us to the early Christmas: today, Alchemy Gen emailed to notify me that she’d be sending me a sweet cookie-making kit, complete with moveable type for embossing personalized slogans. I couldn’t be more tickled! I know for sure: next Christmas, I’ll honor family jokes..

[Note: Uncharacteristically salty language ahead!]
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We buy a roll of paper towels every few months, whichever roll is cheapest and, though I know it pains the manufacturers and designers, with no attention to the prints — oh, I’m sorry: the “eclectic little ’story-based’ vignettes that spell the end of any messy tale.”

But while wiping up spilled butter, I just noticed the motto adorning the paper towel in my hand: “You can bury a lot of troubles digging in the dirt.”

I cannot be the only person who immediately reads this as advice on disposing of the body.

At a time when we’re steeped in Christmas classics, it’s tempting to explore the underbelly of holiday films: Christmas movies that don’t feel like Christmas*. Eyes Wide Shut, Stanley Kubrick’s controversial final film, is perhaps the least family-friendly of the bunch, unless your kids love meandering tales of urban misadventure, marital strife, and secret sexual cabals of rich, powerful men and doped-out supermodel types.

After a disturbing evening at a wealthy client’s holiday party and a disillusioning argument with his beautiful wife (Nicole Kidman), Dr. Bill Harford (Tom Cruise) wanders around the streets of New York in a fit of jealousy and envy. It’s never quite clear, however, what sparks his jealousy: his wife’s fantasy revelations or the sexual power his client wields. Bill all but sleepwalks through the film, which is a vague, quasi-sexual odyssey of frustration and missed connections, all shot against the background of a city festooned with holiday ornaments.

Though Eyes Wide Shut was promoted as an erotic thriller, it is anything but; it’s a dark examination of class and economic power. Even the Christmas trimmings and tinsel show the economic core of the film: the contrast between the lush decor of the upper-crust homes and the pathetic glimmer of downmarket locales speaks louder than words could do.

With its emphasis on the transactional dynamics that plague modern society, about the ways we try to buy and sell each other’s attention and affection… hey, it just may be a modern American Christmas movie after all.

* Tis the season… to be fed up with tinsel and carols, with bustling crowds and brimming cups of nog. If you’re exhausted from the holiday whirl, relax with these seasonal films that take place at Christmastime but are decidedly un-Christmassy. Here are a few more:

The Lion in Winter
Die Hard
Brazil
Holiday
The Shop around the Corner
Toy Story
Doubt
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Better Off Dead
The Apartment
The Proposition
Eyes Wide Shut
Meet John Doe
Twelve Monkeys
Three Days of the Condor
The Conversation
Bell Book and Candle
Gremlins
Diner
The Thin Man
Trading Places
Edward Scissorhands
The Ref
The Ice Harvest
Less Than Zero
The Matador

Sometimes little successes feel big. I think there’s value in celebrating these small triumphs, remind ourselves that we did well at something, even something small.

So, a few small success stories:

I tempered chocolate! After reading several guides to tempering chocolate, each more confusing than the last (a heating pad? really, Alton?), I shrugged, gathered my tools, and took a whack at it. Hey, presto — glossy, shiny, well-tempered chocolate that doesn’t smear or smudge. I felt so accomplished!

I finished my (admittedly modest) Christmas shopping (though there’s lots of making and baking left to do), and I did all my gift shopping with local vendors. Thank you, independent booksellers, movie, and music shops!

I gathered some wrapped gifts to take to the post office, and announced to the room, “Now I just need a box exactly this big and I’m all set!” And then I rummaged around our seemingly box-free home, and I found one. Eerie!

1. At last night’s rollicking holiday party, a certified honest-to-goodness proper hairstylist told me how much she likes my new haircut, a graduated bob. I particularly enjoyed the compliment, since I cut it myself, backed up to the bathroom mirror with scissors in one hand and a mirror in the other.

2. Today I finished my modest pile of Christmas shopping, all in one blast! (There’s lots of baking and making left to do, but no shopping.)

3. The timer just rang, and that means my jacket potato is ready!

With the recent snowfall, I’m starting to get in the holiday spirit. Today, I’m celebrating a little early with Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd in Trading Places. There’s nothing like betrayal, penury, and revenge on the Wall Street bigwigs to give life that Christmas twinkle!

Louis Winthorpe III (Aykroyd) is a privileged and successful executive in a ritzy brokerage house, but his even-more-privileged bosses (Don Ameche and Ralph Bellamy) wonder if his success is due to his own efforts or to his upbringing and surroundings. With the callous insouciance of the mindbogglingly wealthy, they use Winthorpe’s life and livelihood as a the basis for a brotherly bet: toss him out of his envied position, ruin his reputation, and see if he sinks or swims. In his place, they groom street grifter Billy Ray Valentine (Eddie Murphy), a smart cookie with little formal education and a mismatched set of social skills, but loads of charisma and life experience.

The plotline is silly and in other hands could easily be stilted and predictable or become a dismissive and superficial buddy comedy, but Murphy and Aykroyd make the whole thing hum along like a beautiful machine. And a machine it is; the film’s clockwork structure owes a good deal to the screwball comedies of the 30s and 40s, and particularly to the social-class comedies like The Lady Eve or My Man Godfrey.

Trading Places is also a buddy movie, and it’s marvelous to watch Aykroyd and Murphy let their incompatible types find the niches and nooks of compatibility between them. They inhabit their characters so fully, imbue them with real depth and intelligence and humor, never letting them feel like caricatures or plot vehicles. The story does deal with a great many racial and social stereotypes, and imperfectly acknowledges them as stereotypes, but the central parts are so marvelously cast, so intensely alive and real, that I can forgive it its failings.

Also, it’s freakin’ funny, so there’s that.

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