Didn't John Wayne Drink Lattes?

This is probably my least favorite commercial on television. There are many reasons why I am embarrassed when Americans stand slack jawed at the prospect of having to pronounce words like "Half Caf Cap." This tone of vague anti-foreign sentiment is always troubling. I mean, how can I expect to order coffee if I have to learn two new words? What's worse, we Americans invented coffee. Did you know that 97% of the world's coffee is grown and consumed in the United States? Look it up. Given that fact, shouldn't we dictate how the words are said? I mean, this trend of Americans needing to know things in order to exist in the world is bad. I mean, if the woman behind the counter tells me that what I thought was a large is a 'deici', I will refuse to patronize such a place. I am not the kind of person who can commit a word to my short term memory and then repeat it back to someone. Moreover, I should not have to when I am ordering that most American of drinks, a latte. Look at the guy at the end of the commercial sipping his latte deep and proud--that's an American drinking our national drink.

Maker's Mark. Up.

On Thursday, I believe I became the last semi-hip urbanite in America to see Juno. The reasons to see Juno include the following:

1. Ellen Page is the most incredibly hyped young actress in the country right now, and she deserves every word of the the praise.
2. My obsession with Arrested Development is well documented, as anyone who knew me freshman year of NYU can attest. To see Jason Bateman being recognized for the comic genius he is past due. Combine this with the inclusion of the King of Awkward Comedy Michael Cera (disregard the fact that Bateman and Cera appear in precisely zero scenes together), and you can close your eyes to imagine David Cross in denim cut-offs.
3. Allison Janney is in the movie--CJ Cregg playing a canine fetishist.
4. Jason Reitman directed Thank You For Smoking, a single film that shattered the idea that Americans can't do irony.

Almost every part of the movie was fantastic. I saw this movie by myself, as I do with most movies. Something about seeing movies with people can be distracting for me, as I feel a need to comment on the action with my companion. There are certain kinds of movies (Superbad, Borat, Wedding Crashers, etc.) that necessitate a group viewing because the visceral experience of holding your sides and screaming at two nude men wrestling in a Chicago Mortgage Brokers conference with an audience is the best part of the viewing. Juno is not that kind of laughing. It is a dry, understated wit that leads to chuckles and broad grins. Diablo Cody's screenplay is touching, not because of the beauty of childbirth or anything so pat, but because of how it subtly portrays the growth of Juno during her pregnancy. Aside from the classic lines ("I am fo shizz up the spout), there is a heartfelt line that Juno's Dad is able to deliver without sounding like a Hallmark card, "All you can do is find someone who loves you for exactly who you are." I think that is a pretty good description of what people should look for in relationships--much easier that changing yourself to fit the capricious whims of a partner.

I read a weird article in The Guardian that talked about how movies like Waitress, Knocked Up, and Juno portray abortion as unthinkable or selfish. The thesis of the article--that these movies are not self-consciously anti-abortion, but reflect a conservatism in America and the generation of women who don't understand the struggle to legalize abortion--is not so radical, but I was a bit bothered at the suggestion that comedies have a social responsibility to promote political agendas. Knocked Up and Juno are not Schindler's List, and do not exist to advance or counteract socio-political trends. Furthermore, from a dramatic standpoint it would dull the story of a slacker guy and a beautiful woman getting pregnant and the attendant comedy of dealing with each other if an abortion was included as a deus ex machina. In the case of Juno, the more relevant scene was how Juno's parents deal with the news of her pregnancy. They don't heap scorn on her and brand her with a scarlet P, but they rarely miss an opportunity to joke about her carelessness. In the pregnancy clinic, Janney (the eccentric but protective step-mom) stomps an ultrasound technician for being a judgmental idiot and I heard a few claps of approval--shocking at a theater in Greenwich Village.

If you have not seen Juno, I cannot advocate it strongly enough. See it with someone you might want to have a child with, and then let a yuppie woman adopt it. Sounds like a good Saturday night to me.

Our Long National Nightmare

Looks like the WGA strike is finally over, and I could not be happier. Colbert Report, Daily Show and Conan cannot brawl forever, although I loved it while it happened. Hopefully, sitcoms and dramas will come back by late March/early April. Let's hope that the quality resumes ASAP.

A Brief Announcement

This post has a small, but nevertheless critical, function. It confirms that I am indeed alive and on this Earth. And that I have a new computer which is glorious and slim and powerful (I haven't a clue where she gets in from). It is a new Dell Inspiron 1525, and I couldn't be happier with it.

Now that I am no longer shackled with a burdensome hag of a laptop, I should hope that I post more frequently, but you never know with these things. Here's hoping.

Rock musicians are supposed to be nuts

If you've not yet heard the new Amy Winehouse/Mark Ronson single Valerie, you should click on that link and dig it. It is a cover of the Zuton's version from 2006, but who says cover versions are inherently inferior? Certainly not me. These two have created an infectious pop beat that is hard to resist. I consider it a duty of mine to bring some good music out there to the people, and while Winehouse and Ronson are by no means recluses, this song could easily escape the ears of the non-discerning statesider. This is not to fault her at all, but Winehouse is primarily covered here as a boozy wastrel, which is a damn shame because she is an incredible vocalist who should not be reduced to such easy caricatures. So what if she does too many drugs and drinks too much? That is what rock musicians are supposed to do. Give me that junkie with pipes over the pious and crashingly bland Hillary Duff any day.

My computer is giving me a hard time right now, but I could not live with myself if I did not try to get that song out to the world. And yes, for the purposes of that example, the world is defined as those who read my blog. All 11 of you.

In Manhattan did Tad O'Shea, A stately citrus squeeze decree

At the risk of sounding like a Seinfeld stand-up routine, when did eating establishments start taking your name when you order something? I can't imagine this is any more efficient than just doing what they've always done at New York cafes/delis: yell out the items you've ordered with a vaguely menacing look on their face that suggests any further delays in your retrieval of the order will entitle you to a side order of warm spit with your meal.

This new name game is particularly annoying for people like me, who have names that approximately 0% of New Yorkers can spell on the first try. When I go to Jamba Juice, I don't want to give the clerk a lesson on South East Indian phonetics, and how the letter "t" before a vowel is pronounced with a "th" sound, whereas a final "t" is more of a hard stop. Again, I have to ask if this is any real improvement in service time, which is all customers at these establishments care about. If this was some lame marketing guy's idea of building "brand loyalty" or something, it would only confirm everything I think about people who work in marketing, which is that they view the populace as a bunch of lurching, mindless clumps who will patronize a restaurant because the staff calls them by name. You know what I do when someone gives me a coffee that I've ordered and then addresses me by name? I give them the obligatory thanks and a half-smile: the kind where my lips form a grin but my eyes remain steely and dead. I sure as hell don't think Trent and I are going to be friends, and if you do, you're probably the kind of person who chats with every cashier you interact with and then friends them on Facebook with some lame comment like, "Hey Jill, those khakis really worked out great. Thanks a bundle! ;)" I hate those people.

What happens whenever I go to a name-check establishment is that I have to give a fake, monosyllabic name that cannot be messed up by anyone with two functioning brain lobes. Recent favorites include: Chad, Brad, Tad, and Dad. The last one was pretty funny, if only to hear the guy who made my Berry Blast at Jamba ask for it to be picked up--Dad? Berry Blast for Dad?

Do away with giving out your name at these places, and failing that, give out names of television characters or historical figures. I'm looking forward to trying out Indiana Jones and Kublai Khan.

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Contango and backwardation

It's been just shy of 7 weeks since I've posted on this blog, and my only excuse is to say that I've been working so much that during the week I don't know where I am most of the time and certainly can't be bothered to put together full sentences, and during the weekend am in a state of relaxation so profound it can easily be mistaken for catatonia. But let's not dwell on that.

Summer for most people is a time to relax, sleep late and just generally loaf about with a sort of blissful frivolity that underscores the absolute open-endedness of it all. Not for me however. I am up and heading for the office at about 6:55, and am clacking away at the keyboard at 7:25. I step off the desk to end the day at 8:00, and in between I work very hard and learn some cool stuff. Look up the terms that comprise the title of this post and you'll see what I mean. I think finance is a cool place to be, and definitely being around a place where alternative investments get so much play means you can easily learn a lot if you are willing to read a little bit and not be afraid to ask stupid questions. This demanding work leaves little time for my friends, but I do what I can when I can. I am getting an idea of what my life will look like in about a year when I work full time--living for the weekend. But if you get to work around some cool people for those 12-13 hours you are in the office, it can be pretty great. My point is, don't pity the banker for all the work he does and how exhausted he is at the end of the day, because odds are that deep down he really likes it.