I hate to name drop, but I had lunch today with TV star Rupert Jee, of David Letterman's Late Show fame. Okay, I ate a sandwich (the "CBS Marketwatch") at his shop, the Hello Deli, while he mostly sat outside enjoying the first sunny day we've had in NY in living memory and posing for not fewer than six photos with fat out-of-towners. For the last few bites of my sandwich, however, he came inside and we chatted a bit.

Explaining the road bike taking up precious floor space in the cramped little shop, he told me that he's a "half-assed" bicyclist, who enjoys a lap or two around Central Park on sunny days (who knew?). Letterman is also a nice guy, he assures me (knowing which side his bread is buttered on). On the About Rupert page on his site, I see that web surfing and stock trading are among his hobbies, which explains the computer under the counter idling on the AmeriTrade homepage. He also mentioned that, yes, TV exposure does wonders for a deli's business ("I just got lucky") but adds that not all his visitors are second-rate-star-stuck tourists; he also has lots of NYC regulars. Thanks goodness. It's the third time in recent moths I've dropped by to ogle him.

Brilliant sculptures from Luca Varaschini.

Advertising Age has awarded its best ad of 2003 (seems a bit early for that) to an ad for Saturn cars titled "Sheet Metal" which depicts people shuffling around on the streets on foot as if they were in cars. (You can see a streaming version of the ad at the link above.)

The ad is indeed strikingly different for a car ad (given it's anti-car nature), with beautiful photography and elegant piano music. As someone how hasn't owned a car in nearly 20 years, I remember when I first saw this ad, I had a reaction that I still have seeing it again, and one which I suppose GM didn't intend: what a beautiful world it would be if people drove less and walked more. In fact, I'd love to reshoot this commercial with people all on bicycles and just say "Wouldn't this be nice?"

A great guy I worked with for a few months in 2001 joined the military soon after Sept. 11th that year. Earlier this year, he was posted to the Middle East (not surprisingly). Haven't heard from him in a while, but he just wrote a long letter to a bunch of his friends. Here's most of it:

The last time I touched base with anyone was in April. At the time, I was at a large makeshift military base in the middle of the southern Iraqi desert. At the end of April, I went on the road and I’ve been traveling around ever since. I’ve logged over 2,500 miles on my Humvee in the last month, visiting cities everywhere from the Kuwaiti border in the south to Baghdad to the Iranian border in the East and the Turkish border to the North. I’ve recently settled down in Balad, which is 80 miles north of Baghdad and 80 miles south of Tikrit (Saddam Hussein’s birth home).

For those of you not familiar with my job here, I am part of the US Army Civil Affairs Command. We are responsible for all things affecting civilians in what the military calls “its battle space.” Specifically, during the fighting we try to get civilians out of harms way and when necessary into refugee camps. After the fighting, we work on getting the civil administration back up and running (public finance, healthcare, facilities including electric and water, safety including police and fire, education system, museums, etc). We spend much of our time assessing facilities and towns in areas that are less than “permissive” and passing that information to aid/charity groups and government organizations such as UNICEF and USAID to help in planning their missions once things calm down. We also take over the government and appoint local people into new government positions until proper elections can be held (more on this sticky issue later). In Iraq, we are working together with a new organization called ORHA (Organization for Reconstruction & Humanitarian Assistance). If you are wondering what the difference is between ORHA and Civil Affairs, and who reports to whom, so are we. That’s part of the problem here now. ORHA has been getting lots of coverage by CNN/BBC etc, most of it bad for moving too slowly. This is in part because Civil Affairs and ORHA keep stumbling over each other with little coordination.

Back to my “road-trip”: Much of Iraq is brutally ugly, quite frankly. Especially the south. The deserts are not like the US Southwest. They are barren, completely devoid of anything but dust. Its not even sand. Its dust, and it gets in everything you have no matter how hard you fight to stop it. Your lungs and nasal passages fill with it. Your clothes and hair take on its dull color. It is omnipresent, especially when you live outside and take your showers from a 2 liter water bottle as I have for most of the last month. The exceptions to this barren ugliness are the areas near the Tigris & Euphrates and the mountainous north, both of which are beautiful. The date palm trees and fields of wheat near the rivers remind you that this is the “fertile crescent”, the land where man first farmed. It also reminds you of the value of water in this part of the world. Take an ugly desert wasteland, add water rich in nutrient-laden silt and you have paradise. Unfortunately, add oil and you have a wealthy paradise that had delusions of even greater grandeur. The foothills and mountains near Iran are reminiscent of the Alps. It was weird having thoughts of “The Sound of Music” while standing in front of a minefield only a few miles from Iran.

As for the people, do they love us or hate us? Of course the answer varies across the whole spectrum. Within every region I’ve met people who love us and others who hate us. For example, the Kurds in the north are most grateful to the US for removing Saddam. They were brutally repressed by Saddam before we established the Northern no-fly zone in the early 1990’s. When in Irbil, a Kurdish capital, people cheered us and threw flowers at us as we drove through town. I was sitting in the passenger seat enjoying the attention and waving at all the kids when someone threw a cement-filled tin can at me. It just missed my head (we have no doors on our Humvee ­ easier to jump out if under attack) and smashed into the Humvee with a thud. We kept driving and everyone else kept waving. Down here in Balad, the stakes are higher. We’re in predominantly Sunni territory, and the majority of people don’t like us. We’re stuck in a miserable game of cat and mouse with guerilla Saddam-regime leftovers who love to shoot at us as we drive around. We’re averaging 10 gunshot injuries to US troops in Iraq per week, and most are in this region. The guerillas are faring much worse, as would be expected, but they keep playing their games. If you think the fighting is over, I assure you it is not.

The worst town, of course, is Tikrit. Saddam took care of his home-town, and they still love him there. I’ve had the unfortunate luck of having to visit many times. We are responsible for re-establishing the local government, which is next to impossible without dealing with the scum of the earth. Every time I’m there, my skin crawls. I’ve managed to avoid being shot directly at throughout my travels, something highly unusual at this point for a Civil Affairs person (we spend every day out in public, so we’re high profile and an easy target), but I thought my luck was out last week. Four of my fellow Civil Affairs soldiers and I showed up at a meeting with the newly appointed Tikrit Govenor (an ex-Special Republican Guard Colonel who some ass-hole US Army Colonel decided to empower with the govenorship and arm with AK-47s) to introduce him to the newly appointed Dujayl Mayor (a town the Tikrit Govenor felt he had control over). We never even got into the building. The govenor and 30 of his thugs met us in the parking lot as we pulled in. All 30 thugs were carrying their AK-47’s (which remember, some US Army asshole allowed them to have) fully locked and loaded with their fingers on the triggers. We were outnumbered 30 to 5. Three surrounded me. One spoke English, and with a shit-eating grin asked me if he could have my M-16. I knew if bullets started flying, I was dead, but I still wasn’t going to give him my weapon, so I just stood there waiting for shit to start raining down on me. Meanwhile the Dujayli and his contingent of 20 unarmed goons start arguing loudly with the Tikriti and his armed goons. 10 minutes of screaming ensue. I’m left staring at the faces of 3 goons, wondering which one will shoot me first and which one I might get before going down. Thankfully the Tikriti Govenor decides to leave the scene and his goons all jump in vehicles and drive away, leaving us still standing in their parking lot. So we thanked our lucky stars and went to find an ice cream shop (where they sold us the first ice cream I’ve had in a while and then told us in Arabic to fuck ourselves ­ they didn’t know one of us spoke Arabic).

Two days later, I was called to run to downtown Balad where a riot had broken out and two civil affairs soldiers were holed up in a building with no escape. It turns out they were holed up with that Tikriti Govenor who was visiting the town trying to tell Balad that he’s the boss of that town too. The Balad residents also hate the Tikriti Govenor it turns out. And there I was responding to a riot I felt like joining. Long story short: the riot ended once we sent in the infantry. The Tikriti Govenor has now been stripped of US support (without his goons with guns, he’ll most likely be assassinated within the week by one of his many enemies) and the US Army Colonel who put him in charge may no longer be in charge of making such decisions for Tikrit any more. All’s well that ends well, I guess.

In case you think I’m living a life of constant adventure, keep in mind I’m just writing about the highlights. My job is a lot like a cop’s, I guess. Most of the time I do a whole lot of nothing, followed boring drudgery. For example, since we don’t have running water, we shit into barrels and burn it with diesel each morning. How’s that for glorious work. Further adding to the glamour, every meal but three in the last month came from a bag called an “MRE” (meal-ready-to-eat). Finally, I have only 2 uniforms and neither has been machine washed in 60 days. Yes, I smell. Once I found myself visiting ORHA headquarters in Baghdad, which is located in Saddam’s main palace, the most ornate palace of them all, and I looked like I just rolled in the mud with a pig. I felt more than just a little out of place.

If I get a chance to write more, next time I’ll tell the story of the Iranian Mujahideen Organization we met with. They are an Iranian exile group based in Iraq for the last 23 years. They are trying to overthrow the Iranian regime ­ something both the US and Saddam supported. What made them truly interesting was that their top 5 commanders and 40% of their soldiers are women. I got to ride in one of their tanks driven by a strikingly beautiful green-eyed woman who lost her husband to the Iranian “cleansing” which occurred throughout the 80’s and 90’s, and still occurs today. My mother would have been proud to call these women friends. These are true feminists, willing to put their money where their mouth is. It broke my heart that the purpose of our visit was to confirm their disarmament ­something the US Army was demanding to encourage stability in Iraq right now. Further complicating matters was strong evidence that the very Mujahideen I broke bread with had no qualms using what we call “terrorist tactics” to fight their Iranian oppressors. Another story for another day.

In the meantime, I will stay safe. My goal is to return with all 210 rounds issued to me... Please have a beer for me: a Guinness.

Catholic high school girls on the subway:

How'd you do on that Spanish test?

I did horrible.

Again? I finally did good. I got a 90.

I got a 66. I'm a disgrace for a Hispanic.

Then, a few minutes later:

I like punk. I hate metal. All I hear when I listen to metal is: "AAAHHHRRRRR, DIE!!! AAAHHHRRRRR, DIE!!! AAAHHHRRRRR, DIE!!!"

I'd highly recommend you not bother reading this post, as it's just fury-inspired ranting, full of gratuitous foul language.

If there are any of you out there who actually read this nonsense I write here with regularity, you'll remember I've ranted before about how much I hate computers.

I have a house guest who's been here for a week. I love the guy, but he talks too much. One of the things he loves talking about is how great the Macintosh is. I'd rather stick hot pokers in my eyes before switching back to a Mac. And yet he goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on about how great System 10 is. And one of his constant refrains is that you plug any peripheral into it and it automatically recognizes it. He's an older guy, in his early 60s, and he loves that old time rock 'n' roll. So I spent an hour ripping a bunch of CDs from my collection that I wanted to burn onto a writable disk for him.

For whatever reason, I have never gotten into the whole MP3 craze. I like normal music CDs. You pay for it, like you pay for a book or other intellectual property, put it in a CD player and listen to it. No hassle. So I don't often burn CDs. Can't remember when the last time I did so. Months ago. But of course I have a CD burner, so I dusted it off, plugged it in and booted up. Last time I used it, worked fine. No problem. This time:

0xc000221 error. "usbu2a.sys file not found."

What the fuck?

Here's what Google recommends for a search of "0xc000221." Please, bite me!!! You want me to read all that and figure out what the hell is wrong?

So I've spent the last two hours trying to troubleshoot this to the best of my ability with my feable little pea-sized brain, to no avail because apparently I'm just too stupid to use this equipment I've paid thousands of dollars for... I know what's going to happen. I'm going to have to call Nero and screw around for hours with tech support rebooting my computer 100 times. And then I'll have to end up reinstalling Windows or just buy another CD burner in dispair, like I had to do with my printer last fall, last time I ranted about how much I hate fucking computers.

I've been using computers for 20 years. Twenty miserable, hate-filled years. I had my first computer, an Apple II Plus (a piece of shit), in 1983. Yet a colleague informs me tonight that the problem is with me. I'm apparently just too stupid to be trusted with these machines.

Phonographs work. Cassette players work. Televisions work. Telephones work. Newspapers work. Typewriters work. Bread machines, microwaves, beds, bricks and many, many other things simply work. Why the hell don't computers just fucking work?!

And the worst of it is I'm going to have to listen to my house guest in the morning harangue me about if I only had a Mac, I wouldn't have any such problems. Aside from the hot pokers in my eyes....

UPDATE:
I fixed it. Thanks all for the help. Found a driver update on the web.

Ah, blogging. You got the Homeless Guy blogging, you've got at least one Baghdad Iraqi blogging (incidentally, I haven't noted it here yet, as everyone else has done so elsewhere, but Salam Pax is back from his wartime hiatus), you've got Iranian women blogging, and now, as Pearl points out to me, you've got the Hasidic Rebel blogging -- a guy who lives by day, as he describes in one post, "in my usual Chasidic garb: long dark coat and round-brimmed black Chasidic hat," and secretly blogging at night. A fascinating look at this mysterious culture in our midst ("'Real' Chasidim don't know the basics of this nation's history; its legends, stories, and dreams that inspired Americans to create what this nation has become. Ask an average Chasid if he's heard the names Paul Revere, Mark Twain, or Davy Crockett, and he'll give you a blank stare") and details of everyday life struggling as a cross-culture Chasid, like getting busted by neighbors smuggling a video home from Blockbuster.

Okay, as you may have read in the New York Times or elsewhere on the Web, I made fun of a friend on my blog, he got really mad about it, then a year later (last week), I recounted the story to the New York Times, and now he's even madder about it, and I feel bad.

Anil Dash offers a great suggestion: raise money from readers to buy him an iPod, and maybe he'll forgive me and have renewed faith for bloggers. I've never tried begging via PayPal before, but this seems like a good enough cause. So, if you have been moved by this story, or can relate, or think he's over-reacting, or think I'm a jerk or whatever other motivation works for you, please help me convince him that I was only kidding and he's not really fat nor does he run like a girl by donating to the iPod Fund for the Svelte and Graceful Friend of Rick:

UPDATE:
Come on, people! Only six donations so far. (Many thanks to Steve Hall, Scott Heiferman, Mya Brooks, Myles Weissleder, Karen Lai and Allan Karl!)

FURTHER UPDATE:
Well, as of June 1, we've raised a total of $38.09. A couple hundred bucks short of what I'd need to buy him an iPod, I've chipped in ~$50 of my own and am sending him something else that I think he'll like (but I'll neglect to mention just what for the moment, on the off chance that he is still checking the old Bruner Blog these days). Thanks again to all who contributed and even those who half considered it. This auction is now officially closed, but I'll leave the "donation" button up in case you still feel like throwing a couple of bucks my way.

In case you're wondering, this is what it looks like when you're a ~100-visitor-a-day blog and then you get a link from the New York Times.

Of all my many vices and weaknesses, thankfully gambling is not one of them. I don't recall ever having bought a lottery ticket in my life. On a trip last year to Reno, I bet one quarter in a slot machine, just to give fate the chance to make me a freak millionaire. I ended up 25 cents poorer.

But the other day, Lady Luck smiled on me. What would seem impossible actually happened: I used an ATM (at a grocery on 104th & Broadway) to withdraw $100, and instead of five $20s, the machine gave me one $100 bill and four $50s. The receipt confirmed a withdrawl of $100 and, as a few days have since passed, I have also confirmed this with my bank statement.

See, good things can happen to bad people.

10 minutes later I went back to the same bank machine and withdrew another $100 from my second bank account, but the magic had passed: just five crumby $20s. But I'm not greedy. It made my day, and paid for a nice anniversary present for my most deserving wife, anyway.

:-)

I'm not a trucker hat guy, ironically otherwise, but this would be worth owning, were it not a spoof.

NYT writer Warren St. John -- author of the piece that cost me a faultering friendship (my bad; no hard feelings, Warren) -- appears to be assigned to the blog beat of late. This Sunday he also has a fawning piece on NY's snarkiest blog, Gawker (accompanied by a terribly mannish photo of its lovely editor and my buddy Elizabeth Spiers). The piece further cements Elizabeth's coinage of "zeta-jonesing" (two weeks running on that phrase from the NYT; plus apparently Entertainment Tonight picked up on it after last week's Safire column), and it amusingly suggests that she "quit" her job as a finance analyst to blog full-time. (Well...something like that.)

Odd, too, that Gawker has been ranting for days about how stupid it is that Williamsburg hipsters think trucker hats are cool, and today the NYT runs a story about hipsters and trucker hats (unironically under the header "Noticed"). Is she really that much ahead of the curve, or is she actually setting the media agenda in NY these days? One wonders.

I get no end of vicarious pleasure in Elizabeth's sudden rise to prominence as an e-literary darling of the moment, as I knew her when. But when you come right down to it, she is really just a blogger. Which means, when I called her at 7:45pm on a Saturday night, she was still free for a movie ("A Mighty Wind" was sold out, so we settled on "A Dancer Upstairs", which she enjoyed more than I did). Thankfully, despite her peculiar fame in the blogosphere, one thing she could never be accused of is pretention, so she is still a willing movie date for a humble loser such as myself.

After the movie, we enjoyed a couple of beers and a (famous) salami sandwich at Katz's deli in Soho [I stand corrected: Loisaida], where I swear Uday Hussein was working the check-out counter. (Elizabeth swears it wasn't he.) To top that, posted at the check-out counter was one of those post-9/11 Milton Glaser posters that says "I ♥ NY More Than Ever," except that "I ♥" was covered by a hand-written sign that said "Cash Only," so it read "Cash Only NY More Than Ever." (I really need to get a digital camera.)

So, after writing the post below, I went for a run, in part because I'm fat (really), but also to shake my gloom and clear my head. Here's what I came up with:

Please insult me. It's for my own good.

At first, I thought maybe I could make myself feel better writing something like "Nick Denton is fat and runs like a girl," to demonstrate that it really wasn't so mean what I did, as I figure Nick can take a joke, and besides, he was the one who had the New York Times reporter call me for the story (see below). But somehow that just doesn't do it. Then I realized what was missing is that I really didn't know how my friend felt at seeing my insult about him in print. If I was really going to have some perspective on how he felt, the shoe needs to be on the other foot.

Of course, this is going to do nothing to redeem myself in my aggrieved friend's eyes -- in fact, it may well just make him madder, as I'm apparently flipping the whole ordeal into blog stunt for myself. But this is no longer about him, it's about me. (Oh, who am I kidding? I'm a blogger: it's always been about me.)

So I humbly request that if you have a blog, please, let me have it. Ruin my name on Google forever. Slashdot me, Instapundit me, get "Rick Bruner is fat and runs like a girl" on Daypop and Blogdex. Here are some ideas to get you started:

• Rick Bruner is a jackass with a fifth-grade sense of humor.

• Rick Bruner is stupid.

• Rick Bruner is ugly and his mother dresses him funny.

• With a friend like Rick Bruner, who needs enemies?

• Rick Bruner can't sing.

• Rick Bruner is a shit stirrer who doesn't know when enough is enough.

• Rick Bruner represents everything that is wrong with blogging.

• Rick Bruner is an object lesson for the rest of you.

You get the idea. Feel free to use any of these, or better yet, invent your own cruel insults. The truer the better. Spare me nothing. Then email me or leave a comment here so I know exactly how you feel.

I'm feeling better already.

So here's a first: the Bruner Blog makes the New York Times. In fact, the first two words of the article are "Rick Bruner." So why am I not pleased? Because the subject of the article is how blogs can screw up personal relationships, and my mention in the lead is to the effect that I once used my blog to tease a friend, and it went down quite badly. In fact, the article writes "their friendship barely survived the episode," which is true, but said "friend" now informs me that our friendship has not survived my having resurrected the sordid tale for the New York Times. (The writer wanted to hear both sides of the story, so I email my friend to see whether he'd agree to be interviewed. No way, no how. So he's known this was coming. The fact that he's treated anonymously in the story apparently has not softened the blow.)

I would just as soon not have even acknowledged this story at this point (although I doubt it will escape notice in the blogosphere), but I want to make a fervent request to any bloggers out there who know me and might remember this incident from nearly a year ago. While it may be my opinion that said "friend" is over-reacting to this whole thing, its his opinion that ultimately counts in this context. Therefore, I beg you please, please, please resist any temptation to identify him in relation to this fiasco. That would be about the only thing that could possibly make him hate me even more.

The only silver lining, such that it is, would be that a search of "fat and runs like a girl" on Google renders nothing, and likewise a search of his name remembers nothing of the post (which I quickly took down as soon as it became clear how distinctly unfunny he found it). For the record, he is neither fat nor does he run like a girl. It was only supposed to be a joke, albeit a mean one. And, without retelling all the details, lest you think he's hopelessly thin-skinned, I was indeed meaner than simply calling him names as recounted in the Times -- I stooped so low as to steal a photo of him from his apartment (among a pile on his coffee table at the time) and posted that, too, needless to say without permission, which I have no trouble recognizing in retrospect definitely crossed a line between funny and just wrong.

So there you have it: my 15 minutes of fame (or infamy) is for being a bad friend.

I'm in a bad mood. I've had trouble lately finding things wroth blogging about, and now I'm about to get a lot of traffic this Sunday, for all the wrong reasons. I'm sorry "friend." He doesn't care that I'm sorry, though. He's going to be mad forever. Nothing more I can do.

Not having made fun of our fearless leader anytime recently, this will suffice.

Here's another that has Adrienne fuming.

What's that hissing sound? Could it be...SATAN?!

Those wacky Brits, what will they think of next?

Reuters reports:

The church was created six years ago by businessman Michael Gill, 34, of Southampton in southern England for use by a nightclub chain as a promotional gimmick.

That deal fell through, but Gill said when he saw the finished product he realized its potential as a venue for weddings, christenings or even engagement ceremonies.

. . . 

Gill, who plans to build several more of the inflatable churches, said he also plans an inflatable nightclub and inflatable pub as well as inflatable mosques and synagogues.

UPDATE: I missed the fact that this stupid thing actually has its own web site, not surprisingly at InflatableChurch.com

Incredible as this sounds, New York Times right-wing columnist and language expert William Safire apparently reads my favorite frivolously snarky blog Gawker. In his latest "On Language" column in this past Sunday's Times Magazine, he does a whole bit on the verb "to jones" (slang for to crave, as in a drug), in which he mentions the recent use of "zeta-jonesing" in Gawker (meaning, "to eat ravenously"). I'm unclear, however, whether he actually reads the site or not, as he referred to it as "Gawker Stalker," which is, in fact, the name of a frequent section of the site, not the site's name itself. (I wonder if they'll push for a correction?)

I'm only bitter that he has so far overlooked my recent post coining "the 3-1-1."

In writing about the documentary Divan (see post below), I forgot to mention the kick-ass party, sponsored in part by the Hungarian Consulate, at the Bulgarian Disco (which, apparently, the Hungarian consul wasn't thrill with as a venue on nationalist reasons). Many thanks (and curses) to the consulate for providing a bottle of Zwack palinka (high quality Hungarian brandy) on every table. Everyone seems to have gotten rather snockered, which was fine, except that it was a Wednesday.

Find more pics like these (if you care) at ManhattanHungarians.org -- Magyar tax dollars at work entertaining me and my friends with cultural activities like, well, getting us drunk on pear brandy.

Shout out to my buddy Richard Hoy, who has just started a new blog. Richard and I have known each other since around 1997, when he was the original moderator of the Online Advertising Discussion List, a leading resource of Internet marketing news. A few years ago, he put his vast Internet marketing know-how to work at BookLocker.com, an online publishing company he runs with his wife. I look forward to staying tuned to the new blog to see what insights he stirs up.

Congratulations Pearl!

I am so proud of our dear friend Pearl Gluck who, after six years of work, debuted her new documentary film "Divan" this week at the Tribeca Film Festival. And let me hasten to add how tremendously proud I am at the same time of my beloved wife, Adrienne Haspel, who gets her first ever film credit as assistant editor on this film. Yay! I knew you could do it, baby! And while I'm at it, shout out to good friend Miklos Buk, who was second camera on the film.

I have seen this film at various stages of edits before, and honestly it just got terrifically better each time. It is now is nothing short of a great film.

It's hard to do the story justice in a nutshell and I don't want to give too much away, but it documents Pearl's attempt to understand her relationship to the ulta-orthodox Hassidic Jewish community she grew up in, in Borough Park, Brooklyn, till her parents divorced when she was 15 and she went to live with her mom. Her unlikely metaphor for this emotional and physical journey is a couch. More specifically, a "divan," as the Hungarians say, a sacred family heirloom that famous rabbis had slept on before WWII, which held a special place in her father's heart. All girls really want is daddy's approval, so six years later she's debuted her film at a big important film festival all about this couch and the amazing story that surrounds it.

You really have to see it. Hilarious, heartrending, fascinating, full of great characters, and in its final edit, a sharp, gripping narrative that pays off beautifully at the end.

The dilemma in going on about all this to you kind readers is that as of this writing I'm not aware of her having a distribution deal, but the film only debuted two days ago (Wednesday), to a packed screening room (and such a big screen!). I'm am fairly sure it's going to get decent exposure on the festival circuit anyway, and likely more mainstream attention, as it really deserves it. Check out the web site link above for opportunities to see it.

UPDATE, CALIFORNIA SCREENING TIMES:

For those of you in the SF Bay Area, you'll have a chance to see Divan in July:

July 23, 6.45pm @ the Castro
July 27, 2.30pm @ Wheeler Auditorium, Berkeley

I watch plenty of TV, including my fair share of realty TV, but I have so far managed to never see American Idol for more than a few minutes. I have to say therefore I was pleasantly surprised by Kelly Clarkson's appearance on Letterman tonight, winner of last year's American Idol, whose new debut CD Thankful is presently topping the Billboard charts. That's because it doesn't suck, or at least not the single she performed, Miss Independent (MP3 file). Granted, it's not going to make me stop listening to Beethoven, as my father said (when I hopelessly tried to introduce him, at 76, to Eminem), but I'd dance to it at the Bulgarian Disco. Nicely produced, and she's anyway half funky for a little white girl.

How odd is it, however, that she's got a hit album out at all, so completely manufactured a pop star such that she is. Then again, the Monkeys put out some pretty decent music, and even the Archies had a number-one hit with Sugar, Sugar, and they were cartoons.

My friend Dana, a big shot editor at Random House (new job: yay!), sends this:

Rob's Amazing Poem Generator can be found at http://cmdrtaco.net/poemgen.cgi.

You enter a url and it generates a poem created from that site’s contents. I like the poem I got from http://www.bruner.net

Bruner IMT Strategies, an expert in the Bruner
Blog! I.e., Bruner, Blog!
I.invite you
also happen to be
named Bruner? Communications Bruner.
of the Bruner Family Network.

I'd say that's positively Brunerific.

Here's a sad fact: Americans can't sit around and sing songs together. I remember on a trip to Belgrade in 1994, I was at a small house party of a bunch of young Serb college kids, and as part of what appeared to be standard entertainment for such youths, they passed a guitar around among themselve and one by one each accompanied the group in a sing-along of various popular American pop songs. All for my benefit, as the visiting foreigner. I was quite humiliated that I had nothing for them in return. Not only, needless to say, could I not play the guitar myself, I couldn't even remember more than a few phrases of the lyrics to any of the songs they were singing, although I recognized them all. So I just sat there smiling like a big dope, while they wondered what the hell was wrong with this American who had no song in his heart.

I did finally redeem myself by tapping the dark recesses of my brain for a string of dirty jokes, but I was left wondering whether this sad songlessness was just me or generations of Americans. I decided to share the blame and conclude that most Americans simply can't sing, at least not together.

There is one exception to that rule, however: TV theme songs. And, of course, the greatest of them all: The Ballad of Gilligan's Island. Truly, who among you can't remember all the lyrics? For better or worse, Gilligan, the Skipper, too, the millionaire and his wife, the movie star and the rest represent the best of our shared culture.

In case you haven't heard, the great mind behind that immortal ditty, compose George Wyle, just died. As he himself said, "America doesn't want great music themes, just something it can remember."

Here's the MP3 of the theme, and here's a lame cover version by would-be punkers Rancid.

I love biking in NY. I'm a huge fan of the biking path along the Hudson River opened a couple of years ago, and I see from this NYT piece that they're extending that path all the way around Manhattan Island. Bring it on!

Nick Denton must be loving this: a story in the NYT about the toll of rampant in-breeding in Saudi society.