This Is Not A Funny Post

I know that my posts have largely been about movies and sports, and not that much about New York, my life, my life in New York, bars, clothes, manicures, sex etc..., but that's because I'm (1) not a fictional character so I don't have that kind of life, and (2) I've got a job that often entails me working into the wee hours of the morning (and weekends as well), so if my Friday nights are spent across the street at Pacific Echo downing a few lychee martinis on the house (friends and family discount, I guess) before I head home to watch whatever bad movie they show on TV on Friday nights (e.g. Swordfish).

Before I start ranting, I do have to give a "shout-out" (as they say in vernaculars more urban than mine) to the barstaff and waitstaff at Pacific Echo. I pay for perhaps every other drink I have there (even though I really pay for none of them, because I often get out of work late and can expense dinner, and the good folk at Pacific Echo know not to itemize my receipt when I get three martinis with my take-out). The manager always tells me it's "happy hour" when I come in. And their lychee martinis and mango martinis are quite delightful. Their sushi's great, too -- try the Snow White roll next time you're there.

OK, back to our blog. My point is...

I refuse to see United 93. They could have Frank Beamer shouting lines like, "LET'S GET THESE MOTHERFUCKING [racially-charged derogatory slang for islamic extremists ] OFF THE MOTHERFUCKING PLANE" -- and I still won't see it.

It's not that real-life tragedy makes poor cinema, or even poor taste cinema. If anything, it's the other way around. Numerous books and movies were written about the Holocaust and I have no issues with those (and apparently, neither does Oprah). And let's take Pearl Harbor. That movie was only offensive in the fact that it was a such a shitty film that it should offend everyone (insert Team America reference here), not the fact that it graphically displayed a wartime tragedy's events. And then there's Hotel Rwanda, Titanic, The Perfect Storm, Rudy (OK, Rudy's not really a "tragedy", but to those who hate the Irish as much as I do, it is). You get the point. So why do I hate the idea of this film?

Just stick to playing hobbits, bro.

I guess that a lot of red-state rednecks will drag their church groups to see this movie and proclaim that it would be un-American to see it. But, it's just too soon for me, I guess, to be entertained by that shit. I fly too much. I live in Manhattan. I work in Times Square. These things could have happened to me, and they very well still can.

First Saturday In May

Ahhh...it's almost officially spring. To some, spring begins on Opening Day with the first crack of a bat. To others, it begins with filling out a March Madness bracket. And to some unlucky souls, it means allergies.

But to me, springtime means looking forward to one thing. The triple crown. No, I'm not some sort of gambling addict. In fact, I've scarcely bet my own money on a horse race. I'm just an equestrian sports junkie, sort of a throwback from my pre-teen years in the horsey set, thanks to watching National Velvet one day and saying to my mother, "I want to do that!" Hence began my love affair with members of the equine family (insert Black Stallion joke here).



What's so magical about the Derby? It's not all the C-list celebrities wearing delightfully tacky hats. It's not drinking enough Mint Julep to to turn your bowels green for a month. It's not mixing Everclear and V8 Splash and eating soggy sandwiches all day. It's not about the brazen "mammalry exhibitions" by sunburnt Kappas. It's not about the inevitable 40+ divorcee wearing a shirt saying, "Talk Derby To Me". It's not picking the winner -- which I've only done once (in 2001 with War Emblem). It's not even about the underdog stories. A freaking Maserati could win the Derby and the media would find some way to spin that as a "triumph over adversity" worthy enough to make most law school admissions committees proud. Maybe it's about all the pretty horses with the cute little names, such as "Sweet Catomine" (f), "Afleet Alex" (m), and even "Rock Hard Ten" (m).

I guess I've never figured out the magic of the Triple Crown, but if you didn't tear up when Charismatic broke his leg in the homestretch of the 1999 Belmont Stakes -- as he was about to win the race -- and gamely finished to come in third, then YOU HAVE NO SOUL, DAMN YOU.

Up in NYC, people don't do much for the Derby. I have a large floppy hat that's sat patiently in its box in my closet, just waiting for me to attend some equestrian sporting event so it can see daylight again. I'm no Third Turn girl, and I'm too prejudiced against the newmoney set to have my shoes defiled by a walk down Millionaires' Row. Just a handle of Maker's, and the Good Doctor Hunter S. Thompson's ghost would be fine company for me.

And PS: Don't bet on the favorite.