BETAMAXNOMATES

Got back there on Saturday evening after yet another delay, the result of some of the bizarre weather-related happenings in this country over the past week - tornadoes, blackouts, rapid desertification in Tipperary, Leitrim underwater etc.
This second delay necessitated a mammoth seven hour (!) stopover in Shannon airport, a butt-numbingly boring experience enlivened only by the sudden arrival into the same holding area of a planeload of US troops. I certainly cut a lonely figure sitting there, lazily flipping through last month’s Esquire with one hand and holding a homemade No Blood For Oil poster in the other.

If I could be serious for a moment though, it was actually quite a sobering spectacle to see so many of them rush immediately to the pay-phones to call home. Many were crying. Others spent the time standing huddled in small groups or sitting alone and simply staring into space. There was no macho backslapping or frat-boy bonhomie. These men were afraid.

Anyway, there’s not really a whole lot I could write about New York that hasn’t been said before.
Basically, I think it’s great city - not necessarily my favourite holiday, but without doubt my favourite destination. I can’t wait to get back there - so much so that I am looking into doing postgrad study (like, in pretty much anything) at Columbia or NYU. Without wanting to go over the top, I’ll say I felt at home in the city; even strolling through supposedly ‘bad’ neighbourhoods such as Washington Heights and Clinton (formerly Hell’s Kitchen) after dark, with thugged-out FUBU-uniformed hustlers on the street corners and prostitutes calling from the alleyways, I felt safer than I would in Dublin at any time of the day.

I understand now why Woody Allen has made a career of writing love letters to New York - though not why he married his step-daughter - and why so many artists, musicians and film-makers are so enamoured of its charms.
It really is something more than a city, as evidenced by the global outpouring of grief post-9/11. By contrast, Europe just doesn’t register in the American news media. The entire continent could implode and the fact would only get a brief mention after a half-hour report on the latest Ashlee Simpson debacle. Hence, my only contact with the news last week came from watching The Daily Show and Late Night with Conan O’Brien, two shows that terrestrial TV over here really needs to get a hold of, instead of peddling us vapid, overhyped airspace-waste like Joey or Desperate Housewives.

I did visit Ground Zero (incidentally the name of a website I used to have pre-2001) and was struck by just how low-key it is. (Unfortunately, in some ways) there’s no tacky merchandise, no guided tours speaking in hushed tones about the nation’s tragedy, no sentimental memorials. Just a couple of plaques showing a history of the site and a list of those who died.
Ground Zero is just there, people pass by it every day, and a brash designer discount store is right across the road. I’m not usually the type to be taken aback by things but aback I was taken by this. It impressed me greatly, dare I say, it moved me. Moved me into the store over the street to exercise my hard-earned Freedom and stick it to the terrorists by spending $100 on a scarf!
In your face, democracy-haterz! It is a very nice scarf.

Anyway, my trip to the most famous city in the world had me meeting only one real-life celebrity. Two if you count the day I thought I spotted Chloe Sevigny (on closer inspection it was just a pile of old rags). Who I did meet was Billie Joe Armstrong, dreamboat lead singer of SoCal beat combo Green Day!
Don't believe me? Just look at the evidence*!

Billie and me at the WTC Site.

Billie and me at the Lewis Carroll monument in Central Park.

Billie and me at a pornography store buying pornography on West 52nd and Broadway.

Convinced? Well, don’t be so sure. Truth be told those are just elaborate mock-ups, created using a sophisticated image-handling tool called
MS Paint.
But I bet I had you fooled!

* Apologies for the low quality of these pictures and the general low quality of the ‘joke’ overall.

I did really meet Billie Joe Armstrong though.
It was in a funky boutique in the East Village where I was the only customer. I had been browsing for about five minutes when suddenly cameras arrived and I was asked by a smiley lady in a business suit to sign a waiver licensing my image to appear on MTV. Well hell, you don’t need to ask me twice when instant TV fame and fortune is handed to me on a plate (well, a clipboard)!
As it happens, all that was required of me was that I browse discreetly in the background while some glorified microphone stand threw out some head-spinningly inane questions to Billie.
Sample:

‘So, like, at the shows do you, like, you know, uh, feel that the crowd are, like, uh, really feeling it and stuff, like they’re into it, you know, and, uh, you’re, like, you’re feeling that and, like, you’re reacting to, uh, what they’re, like, feeling and stuff?’

Unsurprisingly, these ‘questions’ had to be interpreted for Billie by a svengali manager type with a fake-sounding English accent and a silly goatee (I am not making this up), who encouraged Billie to ‘freestyle’ more and to ‘riff’ on certain suggested ideas and themes.
The whole thing lasted about ten minutes and was very embarrassing for all concerned, particularly me as I had to stand around pretending to be interested in some over-priced Clash memorabilia and ignoring the idiocy going on in front of me. Billie’s very small and boyish looking in person, with a perpetually worried look on his face and I think I have a newfound respect for the kind of nonsense celebrities have to endure to maintain fame.

Speaking of which, what’s this? In my absence it seems Morrissey the Great has taken to attending premieres. Good for him, I say, though I’m not sure I approve of the tie, or the somewhat unsightly Getty Images facial tattoo he’s sporting.

WARNING: In-blog movie review to follow. Interest level falling... falling…

Saw The Aviator last night.
It’s sort of alright, I suppose. DiCaprio tries hard, squinting and frowning a lot, but just doesn’t convince as an adult performer. The movie is carried by its starry supporting cast, in particular Saint Blanchett and John C. ‘The Man’ Reilly. But for fucks sake, does Jude Law have to be in every movie? He’s becoming some kind of Zelig character, popping up all over the place, stinking up the screen with his medium talent and plastic-pretty features.

I’m not a fan of biopics in general, and there’s nothing especially remarkable about The Aviator, except perhaps that it’s directed by Martin Scorcese, an old master who hasn’t made a decent film in ten years (fifteen, if you exclude Casino, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did). Still he’s afforded ‘legend’ status regardless, just like Oliver Stone, director of U-Turn, Heaven and Earth, and now Alexander the Wrote-Off.
And no less than three people I overheard last night credited Scorcese with directing the Godfather trilogy. The world is a scary, scary place.

Consider normal service offically resumed for another 365.
Hola!