Let's meet, oh, say next October 15, at 6:00 p.m. at the corner of 86th and Central Park West. Dusk, you see? Just as the street lamps are firing up for the night. We'll step into the park together and pick up the bridle path just south of the reservoir, and make our way slowly to Tavern on the Green and then wind around back up, on a path next to the loop road this time. It's not so far, maybe 3 miles if you go down to Columbus Circle and back. Not so far at all. Along the way we'll pass runners and walkers and bikers and mothers with babies and teenagers in packs and tourists with totes and tourists in carriages and cops on horses and ancient women with tiny dogs and yuppies with enormous dogs and sweethearts cuddling and vendors hawking pretzels and toddlers on swings and old men on benches and there, way off in the distance, in the coming darkness, right there through the trees, we'll glimpse it: the very big city that's wrapped around this very small town.
I was watching the episode "Marta Complex" tonight and realized everything I've been working for all these years has finally come to fruition. All of my choices have been validated. Juice boxes for everybody!
Maybe you have to love Kristin Scott Thomas already, but I loved her. She has a face for the stage, and the presence, and is just the right kind of cerebral and catty and chilly and, you know, a little bit crazy. And Zoe Kazan broke my heart most of all, I think, just for the trying, and surviving, although after a while I wondered how a person could cry that much onstage and still keep their eyes open. It got a little distracting. Carey Mulligan was sweetly, charmingly bratty, and I wanted to follow Mackenzie Crook right out the door after I finished slapping him in the face. Emotional whiplash! I was dazzled.
Not mine, per se, but I do want this fucking* camera.
+ Unrelated, but this entire site is a joy: 1001 rules for my unborn son.
*Sorry! I'm feeling a little aggressive today. Pourquoi, I wonder? The good news is, I am creating a swear jar for myself, and every time I curse during the day it will cost me $5, payable to said jar. A high price to pay for being me, but the better news is I will be able to purchase that camera in no time!
Obvious: let Cary Grant man the brolly.
My niece found out a couple of weeks ago that her Hodgkin lymphoma has returned, after 10 years in remission. The doctors believe it's treatable. She's 17 years old.
If there are gods that you pray to, please do.
If you have children to hug, please do. Then do it again and again and again.
Today at lunchtime I strolled out of my building to find WILLIAM HURT filming Damages right here on the street where I live. It was the kind of super-casual thing where the P.A. asks you to wait 30 seconds while they "finish the scene," and then when you finally get to shuffle on down the sidewalk you try to turtle your neck inside your faded navy blue Eddie Bauer zip-front hooded sweatshirt because, well, it's WILLIAM HURT, while at the same time you're hoping somehow WILLIAM HURT will spot you and suddenly shout, "Tell that girl to come over here and marry me!" because he's into faded navy blue hooded sweatshirts and the thirtysomething chicks who wear them when they run out at lunchtime to buy a new bottle of Aleve and a coupla Brita water filters.
Can you think of anything better than stepping out of Grand Central Station at 1:40 in the morning after a long ride home from Connecticut to find a hot dog vendor still open right there on 42nd Street, when you've just been telling SarahB that it felt like the perfect time for a late-night hot dog? Me neither. It was very tasty.*
*It looked nothing like this.
Still not finished...
You’re used to editing your thoughts about people — even the nicest ones — but there’s no need with Paul. There’s no such thing as a bad memory. He used to walk on his hands, by the way. He was 76 years old, and I walked into the room twice when he was walking on his hands. He was entertaining the kids on set, the two boys in the movie with whom he had sort of an eccentric, fatherly relationship. He was immediately drawn to them. He had to make them laugh.
This article had a profound effect on me in those days when I was young and dreaming about what kind of man I wanted to marry when I grew up, and of course I wanted to grow up and marry Paul Newman. What I always loved best about Paul Newman—and I loved many things—was how much, how palpably, he loved Joanne Woodward. That he was always quick to point out how different they were, and how smart she was, and seemed so genuinely dazzled and amazed by her, said everything about the man he was.
Just for fun—or for argument's sake—let's build ourselves a man's man. The kind of guy, it is often heard, they don't make anymore. Here's one set of specs:
He's got to have balls, for starters. He's got to be able to look physical danger dead in the eye. To this degree, he's got to be just a little bit crazy.
He's got to be loyal. To a code, a craft.
And loyal, too, to the woman he loves. No matter that it isn't always perfect. The fact remains that she is his very best friend and teacher, which he isn't too butch to admit.
He's got to be able to say what he thinks, and when he doesn't think anything, to say that, or keep his mouth shut.
He's got to know the things that men are supposed to know; that is, what a slip differential is and the like.
And he's got to know the things that men aren't supposed to know; that is, the names of flowers and the mysteries that pass between most grown-up women and their fathers.
[ "The Leading Man: Paul Newman -- Him with His Foot to the Floor," by Lee Eisenberg, Esquire, June 1988 ]