The Golden Globes. Hats off to the few women who represented true individualism by not conforming to walking the red carpet in black. What’s the point when you pose and strut and remain objectified as a pretty thing anyway? Nicole should have thanked her co-star. Male directors need not have been dissed. Misandry is not the answer to bad behavior by a few jerks. Happy about James Franco. Of course. And Seth Meyers was solid.
The Essex Serpent, a novel by Sarah Perry. An amorphous Ness. Meant to be a Victorian Gothic homage, it didn’t quite manage either. Science, medicine, modernity dispelled the gossamer blue fog along a rural estuary where the mythic serpent was reportedly glimpsed. The so-called monster never conjured a terror commensurate with the village’s reaction. Perry draws her characters well. They just didn’t seem to belong in the same story together. A good read, but don’t agree with all the literary accolades.
Christmas Eve Lobster Palooza! No Newburg this year. Thanks to Alicat & Co.
Centerpiece by Joe
Then. Midnight services. Glorious music. Gorgeous architecture. Lots of incense.
Cathedral of Saint John the Divine
The Leonid cosmic show is peaking this weekend. Likely obscured by clouds and rain in NYC. But. Just down the road Meteor Shower is in previews on Broadway. Got to see it last night.
Steve Martin’s homage to the narcissistic relationship-sharing nineties. Set in Ojai California 1993 at a modest modern hilltop home. Amy Schumer & Jeremy Shamos invite a new couple Keegan-Michael Key & Laura Benanti over for cocktails to watch the meteor event from their terrace. Hilarity and marital combustion ensues.
It’s not deep nor serious dramaturgy. But anything that can make you laugh for the better part of ninety minutes to forget the “male-strom” here on Earth is a wonderment.
A halo over Emery Roth’s Corinthian temple atop San Remo’s north tower. Maybe it’s a sign? Go Yankees!!
Game of Thrones returns. After reviewing the last two episodes of gory wars, exploding bodies, and dogs’ ravenous dinner of Ramsay, Season 7 began. It couldn’t get grosser, could it? Oh yes. How does a library become a cesspool. Literally. There are tomes and turds galore. And.
Speaking of bad reads. Leaving Lucy Pear, Solomon’s “mother load” touted by WaPo, is a dud.
Timely. Tragedy. Irony. Shakespeare lives. For good or ill. Past is prologue.
A Tempest brewing?.
Love trumps Trump hate and anti-Trump hate.
Delacorte. Central Park.
The Night Ocean, by Paul La Farge. I’m not sure. It kept me rapt. Author clearly had lots of things to work through. Personally. Maybe. Literarily many unfinished stories found their way into this dense work. Sprawling disjointed tales of several complex people in different times and places. Spaces. Told from a woman’s point of view, Marina the shrink, working out her own issues. The author gave her an authentic voice. It begins as her husband Charlie disappears into Agawam Lake in the Berkshires. H.S. Lovecraftian fandom less clear. More context necessary for those not acquainted with this cult of science-fiction-horror genre. Nonetheless. Worth the meandering page-turning journey. Lots to think about. La Farge’s New Yorker view.
Speaking of mind-bending. Twin Peaks so far is a self-indulgent David Lynchian acid trip with no redeeming plot value. Vomitaceous. Literally.