Maybe I'm Gravy

Getting In The Ring With The Wrestler

The Wrestler. Directed by Darren Aronofsky. Starring Mickey Rourke, Marisa Tomei and Rachel Evan Wood.

In recent years, there’s been a decent amount of publicity about the short life spans of former wrestlers. The people whose day job it is to over-abuse their steroid-filled bodies. Hearing about it and seeing it are two totally different things. Who wants to feel bad for someone who makes his own bed? Make no mistake: The Wrestler’s Randy “The Ram” Robinson understands his choices and controls his own fate. But Aronofsky’s goal isn’t to make the audience feel bad for this guy’s shit-storm life. It’s to provide a painfully clear window into a world most of us know nothing about. The Ram isn’t asking for much, after all, he’s just trying to make ends meet and have a few good times along the way.

Marissa Tomei and Rachel Evan Wood do exceptional jobs rounding out the stellar cast, but the highlight for me (asides from Marisa Tomei sans clothes) is the straightforward, behind-the-scenes look the independent wrestling circuit. All the dude’s dudes, their attitudes, they way they plan a match, the names they have for things us non-wrestlers don’t even know about. They make a quick stop at the grocery store interesting. It doesn’t feel like acting. It felt like someone had snuck a camera backstage. A camera that, if found, would be smashed over someone’s blood-smeared head.

From beginning to end, this in-your-face character study is refreshingly simple and mind-numbingly excellent. Mickey Rourke transforms himself into a washed-up former pro so efficiently that I wouldn’t doubt if everything they shot was real. And I’m not talking about his immense size (which is impressive), I’m talking about the crazy-ass stunts performed in the ring. Not the moves, but the props and the damage done. It’s not stuff that would ever find it’s way into Vince McMahon’s McWrestling. The Ram’s back is against the wall, and he’s not in any position to be setting boundaries. Even when he tries, he gets the same results he’s gotten all his life: shit-storm!

Asides from the real washed-up wrestlers of our world, the movie parallels the life of any athlete, actress, model or otherwise talentless pop-culture flavor of the week. Society pays attention to million dollar divas like A-Rod, Kobe or Britney, while countless others with no back-up plan fail to hedge their bets, never asking “What if?” And that’s what The Wrestler is all about: how far to take your place in the universe, when to call it quits, and when to go face-to-face with all the shit life hands out.

Dali Rolls on V Dubs

In recent years, Dali's trippy work has all but been banished to cement dorm room walls. For those suddenly released from the constant oversight of authority figures, the choice to pair his bizarre landscapes, a few Pink Floyd tracks, and the trendy mind-altering substance du jour was obvious. Perhaps having stumbled down a similar path in their better days, some Dali-supporting creatives from DDB Berlin have asked themselves what would Dali paint if Dali had something to say about Volkswagon. After all, ready or not, every co-ed eventually gets the boot from college and is entrusted with keys to the real world. And who wouldn't mind a reminder of the responsibility-free clusterfuck that was higher education every time the milk ran out? Oh, wait. People don't think of ads for their car every time they drive it, do they? Well, most people.

But at the end of the day, will those same people who once fell under Dali's spell again find themselves influenced by his surreal ranting? These ads sure are fun to look at, especially in a world where so much car advertising is painfully similar. Asides from their strong pro Vee Dubs message, everything about them looks unmistakably Dali, even if Dali's own obsession with little things like the relativity of time and distortion of space take a back seat (no pun intended) to the new Polo. 

If this reappropriation simply has you wanting more Dali and less art abuse, the William Bennet Gallery on Greene St. in NYC is featuring his work right now. Mostly drawings and etchings, much of it available in the low thousands. Strutting through, of course, is perfectly free, and they even have M&Ms at the door. 

History, Carefully Assembled One Block at a Time

Man, I used to love Legos. They were right up there with Brio as one of my favorite toddler-year playtime events. It was like a primitive version of the Internet: you could do anything you could imagine. All sorts of completely sustainable block-shaped communities would spring up across my living room floor, only to be gracelessly leveled once boredom struck.  

Having more pressing needs these days, I haven’t dabbled in Lego Land in quite some time. Which is probably a good thing, as recent Lego technology has been somewhat disappointing. Walk into any self-respecting toy store with a sizable Lego district, and all you see is rows and rows of kits for castles, helicopters, beach crafts, and moon rovers, etc. Everything is just too damn specific. The strength of Lego is that there’s no instruction manual needed. It doesn’t have to look like a Mongol fortress to be a Mongol fortress. But these days the blocks come so precise, you can’t fashion them into anything else. You buy a pirate ship kit, you make a pirate ship. That’s it. No ripping it apart and making an impromptu Maserati or a tropical igloo or a three-legged sloth with laser-shooting tail. Reenact some plundering, put the ship away, end of story.

That’s why it’s so refreshing to see photographer Michael Stimpson’s work. He’s painstakingly recreated some of the most iconic photographs of all time with Legos. All without buying from the Photo Icons Collection^®. Check out his Flickr page. There’s something pleasant about the Lego version of something real. The towns I built from scratch rarely had drama, as I recall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Update 10/03/11: Check out Mike Stimpson's new site with more Lego recreations of classic photos

The Gift That Keeps on Feeding

I'm surprised hardly anyone else knows about Diner's Deck yet. In my circles, I've been pushing them on anyone willing to listen for the past three years. While they make great gifts, it's gotten to the point where I buy one for myself. Hey, I gots to eat, too, and I prefer a little heads up before I strut into a random eatery.

Each Diner's Deck comes with 52 cards, each representing a restaurant. I always get the Downtown Deck, but there are versions for Manhattan and Brooklyn, as well as the Bar & Lounge Deck. Each card is a $10 coupon, which usually ends up being close to the tip. The Decks are $30, so technically after three visits you make your money back. But it's not about the money. It's about checking out new places you would otherwise miss, Manhattan being full of good places that are hard to find.

The card gives a quick review on the place and the type of food served, along with some other info like price range and if they take credit cards. I have never managed to use more than 10 a year, but the fun part is breaking it out when the normal go-to's aren't cutting it. There are always some gems to discover and some tasty cuisine to ingest. And there's a good chance whoever gets one has never heard of it before.I reccomend giving it to someone who likes to eat, likes the concept behind a gift that can be used multiple times, or someone you don't know well. Initially, they may be confused, but it's the thought the counts.

Word play without words

I already had enough reasons to play, so it's not like this ad by JWT Santiago had me clawing my way to the nearest scrabble board. But it's a new way to think about discovering the words within and having more fun than you ever thought possible with the letters of the alphabet. And, once again, it features an animal. Hm.

Appreciating the Zoom of Olympus

Some enjoyable Olympus ads by JWT Sydney. Visual, simple, striking, light-hearted, and nicely stylized. Of course, it's also hard to go wrong with a Koala. As Mitch Hedberg once so wryly observed, who doesn't wish they'd come home to a Koala infestation?

My Favorite Coffee Shop

When done right, a cup of coffee doesn’t just provide a needed kick. It’s a much-deserved escape into the hills of Colombia or the jungles of Tanzania. When done right, it’s something to appreciate. I’d like to tell you about the place I got when only the best cup of coffee will do. Maybe you’ll stop by one day. It’s a small place, nothing special. But it’s comfortable and quiet, and it smells great. Just one thing. It’s not in New York. It’s not even in Brooklyn. That’s right. My favorite coffee shop is in my head.

You see, at this coffee shop, the beans are always fresh roasted and the service is with a smile. And topless, because all of the baristas are budding porn stars. (Not the kind who are jaded or worn down, either.) The chairs at my coffee shop are plush, vibrating and enveloped in gold leaf that rubs off on my clothes. Then I brush it off, collect it in a small pile, and use it to buy things like a Monster Truck or a Light Saber, or other stuff they sell stuff right next to the biscotti. There is always a live band, like Aerosmith, but the ‘70s version when they really rocked. And they’ve been shrunken down to the size of Pez Dispensers so I can put them on my table and threaten to flick them off the edge if they refuse to play Sweet Emotion again.

My favorite coffee shop has a shooting range in the back so I can let off some steam. Only instead of shooting at targets, I’m shooting at robot clones of the people I hate most in the world. And when I need more ammo, little penguins bring it to me on silver platters. They might even be puffins, or any other kind of bird that looks like it’s wearing a suit, I’m really not sure and that’s not the point.

The point is that everyone should have a favorite coffee shop and appreciate every single cup of coffee they have. So next time you want a tall cup of joe or a voodoo doll or some opium or to host a daytime TV talk show interviewing dogs, come on by. I’ll be at my table, listening to miniature Aerosmith and enjoying my latte with a smile, trying to eye the topless baristas through my sunglasses without them catching me.

Skiing Roulette

Growing up skiing in the northeast is like enjoying McDonald's. Maybe if you've never eaten anything else, Mickey D's tastes pretty good. But one day you're made privy to the fact that other places make burgers that taste much better on a regular basis. Made with actual ground beef, even. Suddenly, you find yourself looking at those golden arches with pursed lips. Sometimes you’re in the mood, sure, but more often than not you can’t look past the pimple-faced cashier, the greasy wrappings lined up on aluminum siding, and the hisses of the Fryalator. Despite all this, sometimes McDonald’s is exactly what I want. I grew up with it, after all, and nothing else is quite like it.

From my head to the web

Most of the things that transpire in my brain end up dying there, either as poorly-timed remarks, slightly inappropriate visualizations or embarrassingly off-target anecdotes. But no longer! Now they have a home floating around the internet, bumping into other pages and becoming yet another source of procrastination, albeit one for the truly depserate. Writing should be entertaining and perhaps even a little enlightening, if done right. But most of all, it should be refreshing, like a lemon-lime spritzer or a morning pillow fight. Writer's block, commence!