There Glows the Neighborhood

Deck The Halls is Emerz' favorite Christmas movie. I hesitate to watch anything with Matthew Broderick--someone once told me that they saw him in East Hampton and yelled "Ferris Bueller!" and Broderick threw one of his shoes at him. What's the lesson here-- you can't escape your past? Or is Matthew Broderick just an asshole? But I DO love Danny Devito. Can he legally drive a car?

Other members of the cast include Kristen Chenowth, Kristen Davis, Maeby from Arrested Development and the twin models from 8th and Ocean (they are the ones that make me feel okay about having a stigmatism. Or an astigmatism). One can start to understand why this is Emerz' favorite movie. One can start to understand why he is embarrassed to stand up when certain parts of the movie are playing. One can understand why Emerz writes erotic tributes and mails them to Davis' agent. Emerz says Davis looks just like his second grade teacher, who he once saw over brunch at Sarabeth's. Emerz was drinking a Bloody Mary and a bottle of Pepto and sent one of each over to Ms. Shanley. But Ms. Shanely was no longer Ms. Shanely, she was Mrs. Alan Levitt. Lesson for Mrs. Levitt? You can't escape your past.

Deck the Halls is a story of suburban consumer competition, of misplaced priorities and unlikely breeding (Devito's daughters must be adopted). Emerz understands this. Every year Emerz has an eggnog drinking competition with his parents neighbor, an older man with a permanent case of the shakes and a much younger wife. I have a hard time describing Emerz' feelings towards this man, but I would say it falls somewhere between admiration and unadorned love. But they don't pull any punches when the eggnog comes around. Emerz just sprinkles an extra helping of nutmeg and goes to work. If the old man wins, Emerz has to wear that pink one-piece bunny pajamas from A Christmas Story. If Emerz wins than the neighbor's wife has to wear it. Them's be the rules, "And they are unflinchingly rigid," says Emerz.

There have been times when it seemed that the Christmas spirit was lost forever, like when Emerz' girlfriend got a nosebleed at a holiday party. He didn't blame himself, but he should have. But when Chenoweth celebrates Devito's emotional maturation and a saved Christmas with a clear-voiced rendition of "Silent Night" there are only a few ways to keep the tears from flowing: Remembering historic days of devastation, remembering friends and opportunities lost forever, and remembering the lump of coal Emerz got last year. Emerz wants to embrace the warm tears of Chenowth, but he is not quite ready yet. Lesson for Emerz, one he already knows too well: You can't escape your past.

Art Imitates Life

Watching "Cruel Intentions" with Emerz is like watching "The Shawshank Redemption" with McGrath.

Sleep over, Victoria's Secret Fashion Show

"Fashion show, fashion show, fashion show at lunch!" -Kelly Kapoor Emerz is wasting his life, he says, as we watch the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show on DVR. Again. I'm deaf after the thunderous Usher performance (Emerz has an incredible home theater system), thankfully deaf, but I can read Emerz' lips. He has beautifully plump lips, mounds that simply fade into the soft pink pale of his face. He has beautiful lips but that is not why I can read them. I can read them because Emerz has only said two things all night: "Pass the ginger ale" and "I'm wasting my life." Aren't we all, I think, sitting there watching, sitting here, writing. All those toned, glowing and pinched stomachs look like they are built especially for appreciative lovers to rest their heads on, a pit stop on the long trip in either direction, ears down, listening for the faint sounds of human mechanics. After all, there is a chance the woman is a forgery, a robot, a Japanese sex-doll implanted with a (limited) artificial intelligence chip, sent from the future to bring about mass suicides, mini-Jonestowns in every fraternity living room, thereby dooming the human race. I finally say this to Emerz, sounding like I'm screaming underwater. He says this would be preferable to any real future that did not involve carnal knowledge of these women. But that's absurd, I say. There's Puff daddy in the audience, worth hundreds of millions, able to get just about any girl he- And there's P. Diddy, gnawing on his fucking knuckles, says Emerz, triumphantly pouring more ginger ale into the mug. The fizz bubbles up and over onto an old Robb Report we use as a coaster. Well what about the girls themselves, I say. By this logic, their lives are meaningless - they can't be with an appropriate male counterpart. But they can fuck themselves, says Emerz. And each other. I nod. My hearing is returning. But, I say, when you find out a girl will fuck you, even wants to fuck you, even told another girl that she has considered the possibility and even gone so far as to imagine what it might be like, isn't there always a certain part of you, behind the blush and the ego and the flattery, that says, trust me babe, it ain't all that. I continue. And they can't enjoy the novelty of their bodies the way another appreciate lover might be able to, the way another human being can. Even then there are often problems. I can't believe this is happening to me, you think the whole time. You try to remove yourself from the moment, concentrate on the dark shapes in the room, memorizing the scene so you can remember it later, to prove to yourself that it went down this way, just the way you tried to remember it. That's also why there's mirrors on ceilings and nanny cams. Ever see yourself have sex before? I ask Emerz. Did it look the way you remembered it? Pretty much, he says. Well, that right there makes it not worth it, I say, content to let the matter drop and get back to Two and a Half Men. But P. Diddy could fuck those girls, says Emerz. Chewed up hands or not, he could probably pick one out and be in it that night. If not that night, than I guarantee that with a little work he could do it. Flowers, whatever, some Mystery shit. You know how to do that too, I say. You know how to do the work. Yeah, but I don't have fucking 300 million dollars, Emerz says. True, I say. I can hear so painfully clearly now that the bubbles popping in Emerz' Canada Dry sound like pistons in my ears. But your not exactly indigent. You have free time, access to Mystery, access to these girl's autobiographical backgrounds. You say you're wasting your life not fucking these girls than go after it, be like Seal. Well, said Emerz, I'd rather be here alone than be like Seal. We finally retired upstairs. Our twin beds looked remarkably prim and innocent, with their matching blue comforters (duvets, says Emerz) and hospital corners. Emerz flipped through an old yearbook while I thought of the women who have cat-walked through my life, taking wide declarative strides, leaving behind them a wake of longing, confusion and confetti. Then it was lights out. The crisp sheets rustled like autumn leaves in a storm and then there was a collective sharp intake of breath. Then silence. As silent as Jonestown after the sun came up, but before the dogs started barking.

P.S. (See Kelly's greatest moments, Seasons 1-3, by clicking link below.) (Embed it, says Emerz...)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDYPI0DaIBw

Ranting and Raving

My friend Emerz just got a new cell phone, a Samsung Rant. It just seemed appropriate.

Blackout

Emerz and I still don't understand all the hoopla that surrounded The Sopranos' series finale. Journey, onion rings, blackout- that's my big finale every night.

The Last Kiss

Emerz could barely contain his excitement over the phone. "This rivals Holmes boob in 'The Gift,'" he said. His giddy voice rising and falling rapidly as he lost his breath over and over, he explained the situation: Zach Braff-Summer Roberts sex scene in the thirty-something sexual angst, romance snuff film "The Last Kiss." Where's Seth Cohen, is all I could think as I watched it unfold. After all, as "In the Land of Women" failed to prove, Cohen is the new Braff. Summer looks like Bambi with huge doe eyes as the film tries extra hard to show how much younger she is then Braff's pregnant gf back home when he stops by her dorm room "just to hold her." They spin each other around, her shirt comes off, sideboob, her skirt is one of those really bunchy ones that rides up easily, her underwear is forced down her right leg by her left toes. I can see Emerz spinning in his apartment, running out his door and down the four flights of stairs, waking the neighbors and grabbing anyone he can get his hands on to loudly proclaim "I'm in love, I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!!" It is the biggest dorm room I have ever seen. Then Zach and Summer move to the bed. He gets cold weiner and pauses- her eyes widen even more as she tells him, "I don't care about tomorrow." Her lids flutter briefly and then, suddenly, she is Bambi's mom. As good as dead.

Brewster's Millions

Emerz and I don't get Brewster's problem, and I would think that Richard Pryor, as well as anybody else, would know what to do with $30 million dollars that has to be gone with nothing to show for it. Didn't he set himself on fire while consuming a very expensive and addictive substance in the most addictive and expensive way possible?

The New Mandy Moore, the Old Diane Keaton

Emerz called me, told me there was a Mandy Moore vehicle I had to see to believe. "Why," I asked. "Because I said so," he said. If there's something to be said for Diane Keaton, it is that she can still pull off a hat. Or, at least, she thinks she can. Ever since she was romanced by Jack Nicholson in "Old People Doing It in the Hamptons," Hollywood has decided that Keaton is the poster girl for mature sexuality. The problem is that she treats the role and the sex with such immaturity. Whenever the man comes around she melts, going from frigid to bubbly in a wrinkly spasm. That movie, while not as revolutionary as some would have us believe (it comes nowhere near the much more serious and touching "Away From Her"), as well as a growing concern and industry surrounding older people's sex lives, has given birth, miraculously, to "Because I Said So," in which a meddling, sexually frustrated woman lives her love life vicariously through her youngest daughter, played with admirable effort by Mandy Moore. Ever since Moore hit the scene with "Candy" I have been a fan. I also enjoyed "In My Pocket." She dated Fez pre-Lohan and for a while was mired in a three-way tie for third place with Jessica Simpson and, I don't know, Willa Ford for the pop queen title. Simpson was religious with a sinfully inspired body, Ford looked like a monster truck spokeswoman, Britney was our sweetheart and Xtina was wondering how she got involved considering her pipes. Moore needed a hook, and she never came up with one. I find it charming as to how she is always apologizing for her previous work. First of all, don't apologize for "Candy" and then give me "Because I Said So," and secondly, don't treat me like I didn't know exactly what "Candy" was when it came out - tasty and bad for me. In fact, the fact that you are apologizing at all makes me wonder whether you still don't get the joke, the obvious sexual metaphor of a 15-year-old girl singing about something sooooo sweet. The movie minus Keaton would be standard romcom fare. A woman is confused as to what she wants, strings along two different but okay guys, acts surprised when they find out about each other and aren't thrilled, makes a pouty face, eats dinner alone during a slow song while balancing a huge red wine glass precariously on her knee. One man is right for her, the other is successful. Her loft is all exposed brick and black and white movies playing in the background. She runs a catering company and loves her job. Food makes sense to her- she knows something is wrong with her and Tom Everett Scott when she burns the souffle. Moore looks good as a cook. The extra 8 pounds settle well on her body. Emerz liked this movie because of Piper Perabo (Keaton's middle, sensual daughter between Rory's mom on "Gilmore Girls" and Moore) who needs to divorce her agent. He is a big fan of "Coyote Ugly." You say, "Who isn't?!" but Emerz is a really big fan. He saw it in the theaters twice and bought the lobby display "for a song," and has a poster signed by Maria Bello and Adam Garcia in his bathroom. Also, he's from New York and he goes to the real place often. Too often. Like, thrice a week. Watching Annie Hall experience her first orgasm with the Dad from "7th Heaven" (Stephen Collins, who also kills it on "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia") has its charms, but by the third time you see them together you wonder when they are going to get into a rhythm and learn how to do it without breaking everything in their apartments. First orgasm? Yes. Keaton explains to Moore that her father "said he didn't have all day and he worked at night." And now that she has had one she loosens up and lets Moore live her own life. How liberating for them. And then the movie is over. How liberating for us, the audience, for whom the whole afternoon has just opened up as we rejoice in being alone.

More Appropriate Title

"We Own the Night"? More like, "We Rent the Afternoon."

Who's Your Mommy?

(Images courtesy of Emerz)

Emerz came from a woman, a woman he has met several times, a woman who pays for his cable. I came from a woman myself, one I have grown to be very fond of over the years despite her gradual hearing loss and selective memory. In "Definitely, Maybe," Abigail Breslin does not know who her mother is, at least in terms of her father's sexual history. The plot is as difficult to follow as it is to explain. Written and directed by Adam Brooks, the movie is a convoluted take on an average story, a young man's coming-of-age in an urban setting. Despite the confusion and the lame attempt at setting the majority of the plot in flashbacks to the eerily authentic early 90s, Emerz did not find it "fresh." The film opens with Reynolds opening an important-looking document. Uh-oh, it is his divorce papers. But from who? and how could this possibly happen? But it is our lucky day, because on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Will picks his daughter up from school and they have fun little talks. This is how families work now, Emerz told me. He never forgot the day that he found out that his mother had been married before. I once met an ex-boyfriend of my mother who drove a silver Jaguar convertible and his daughter was in the passenger seat and even though he introduced us and even though he had to lean across her to shake my hand, she never looked up or acknowledged me in any way. I then stalked her online for several months. On this particular Tuesday, Will picks up his daughter, Mya, only to find out that she learned about sex through a state-sponsored educational program. Hilarity ensues as Breslin says words like "penis" often and loudly. It is now on Will's shoulders to explain the social aspect of sex to his daughter, a process he refers to as "rehearsing." So he tells the precocious, prepubescent Mya about the three loves of his life and how he had sex with all of them and yet somehow only one of them is her Mom. Reynolds is an attractive man. Emerz readily admits it, and I concur. He has tried really hard to stop doing the knee-jerk condescending thing that he falls back on often, and for that I thank and applaud him. He is vulnerable in this film, accessible, believable, even. If I made this movie and knew he was to be my leading man, I would give him something more to work with, a la the athletic and pleasantly disturbing sex montage in "Good Luck Chuck." But instead he gets three women of substance: Elizabeth Banks as his college gal, Rachel Weisz as the sensual and sophisticated big city writer, and Isla Fischer as the free spirit who moves in and out of his life. All three women break his heart, sometimes more than once. Will also has a boner for Bill Clinton, who he works for believes in, but who ultimately fails him. A love story for the new millennium, set at the end of the last millennium, against a back drop of political intrigue and alternative music. What could possibly go wrong? Emerz says he was let down by the film because the women were all flaky, but resilient when the story required them to be. For instance, Banks sleeps with Will's college roommate while they are briefly separated, but when we see her later in the film she is a good person who we are meant to like and respect. Everyone makes mistakes, Emerz knows that, but don't ask him to forget and forgive in like half an hour. This leads him to the curvy Weisz, who had a lesbian hook-up with Banks at summer camp a long time ago and asked Will to deliver an old diary for her. Whatever. She loves him and Will loves her and we love them together and she betrays him and then they fail. Life goes on, I told Emerz. Then Will loses his job and hits the sauce and lets himself go a little bit and watches the Lewinsky thing unravel on television while eating Chinese. He is all set to give it a go with Fischer but gets too drunk and instead insults her. Emerz knows all about that. There is a happy ending of sorts, though Emerz didn't believe it. And Will became less likeable as the film dragged on. Emerz found it hard not to blame the three women for that, somehow.

Emerz' cable is back on

My friend Emerz has cable. This is what he tells me.