forgotten theater

Remember Freaks and Geeks?

The Revolution Will Not Be Televized

Why are these guys always so predictable? But hey, if it ain't broke...

Ballmer...the Prequel

Just when you thought the series was over...MS brings us Ballmer 1.0, teaching Generation Why a thing or two about great salesmanship. Brin, Page, you're on notice.

Ugly Guys Finish First

Bohemigrant newsroom has just received a breaking story from a well-respected British daily. Several staff members can breathe easier tonight amid reports that ugly guys do it better. While our investigative team checks facts and runs the numbers, we express cautious optimism that tha truth has finally been revealed. Take that, Johnny Handsome! Sexy ladies everywhere have the itch for pudgy, pock-marked men. Out with the shag-a-gay 90s and in with the bag-a-beast 00s! Hooray for the enlightened woman!

Murtaugh Goes Fonda

Bohemigrant moves to lobby Cornell University's school historians to expunge Danny Glover's infamous convocation appearance 5 years ago from the annals of special speakers. Ruining gradutions at a farmer Ivy is one thing Danny, but financing your pet projects with the oil money of our enemies is something else. Danny Glover, you just made Bohemigrant's shit list.

Breakdancing...It's Just an Expression

Who doesn't like breakdancing? The flurry of helicopter kicks, robot shuffles, and dervish-dancing headspins that could humble a Mevlevi monk are candy to the eye. Immigrants love them, old people love them, and need we say it--children love them. Oh, and obviously, the post-modern take.

you will believe a man can fly.

bryan singers got nothing on this.

Whiteface

Far be it from Bohemigrant to ask the good people of New York City for any favors, but hell hath no fury like an immigrant scorned. Subway protocol dictates that we each entrench ourselves in a corner and hold on to our belongings like we do our militia muskets. No looking, no talking, and certainly no touching. And truthfully, on the morning commute, this minimalist approach often makes the maximal sense.

There is one component of this mass-transit reticence, though, that this blog would soon see quashed. Oftentimes, Bohemigrant, in his haste and morning-time sloth, is sloppy brushing his teeth. And on those days, it is not until he walks in the bathroom at work, sometimes as late as noon, that he discovers a huge white spot on his left cheeck. We admit, there is no easy way to engage a man on a train with such a matter without incurring the reputation of a Buttinski and the general scorn of your train-mates.

But come on, you stupid drones—there’s gotta be a way! There’s a huge chalk-white spot on my fucking face, forchrissake! Do you think I might not want it there? What, do you comfort yourself with the thought that I like to show off my Rembrandt whitening gel? Or that I’m careless enough not to wipe down after sucking down on a big one? At least laugh at me, something! Anything! Don’t ask don’t tell is for them soldier boys! We’s civilians, so let’s be civil!

Botanical Gardens

Greek Whites II: Atlantis

The second Greek white I taksted is the 2005 Atlantis from Santorini's Argyros estate. This wine is actually on the international radar when it comes to Greek wines, and is a blend of Assyrtiko, Athiri, and Aidani grapes. Of these, the Assyrtiko, richly packed with Santorini's volcanic ash, is considered to be perhaps the best white in Greece. This was a doozy--big floral nose full of minerals and herbs. The body is as full as any good Sauvignon Blanc or Riesling. Acidic structure makes the residual sugar known. I would call it one of the great off-the-beat-track whites I have ever tasted. 90 points. Pick it up today, as it's a known brand.

Wine of the Week: 2004 Kourtaki

To escape the ennui of the same old whites, head for the region historically primed to produce great wine--but contary to conventional thinking, is not known for it. Greece. The first of my 3 Greek wines, this is a simple but underrated country wine. Produced in Crete from the indigenous Vilana grape, this everyday quaffer is dry, crisp, chalky, and minerally--owing to Crete's sandy soil, no doubt. Straight fruit will greet your nose, with apple and citrus scents. Goes down easy, though it leaves little memory of itself on the palate. It's a hit and, at $6-7, it's a steal, so grab one today. 87 points.

Strawberry Fields Forever

Strawberry Fields in Central Park is a playground for the urban hippie—a Disneyland attraction with nary a remnant of the decade that inspired it, noted my collaborator Dr. Venture. Intended as a memorial to John Lennon, who was shot across the street 27 years ago, the Neapolitan mosaic centerpiece is surrounded by a pitiful gathering of undrafted former dorm lawn hacky sack players, second-rate jammers, and random cripples and vets. Way to branch out, guys.

None of this, however, deterred a pretty girl from sitting on a bench across from yours truly and Dr. Venture and reading a book. Rapt in the bloom-in-progress and the spiraling descent of cast-off flower petals, I failed to notice a middle-aged gentleman sit right next to the girl. Gentleman is a stretch. He looked very much like the owner of a take-out kitchen in Curry Hill—a short and stout brown-skinned midget in dark dress pants that didn’t mesh with a wrinkled windbreaker. His ride and mobile home—I thought at the time—a shopping cart filled with trash bags and the bric-a-bracs of an inner city nomad.

The crippled veteran doing doughnuts around the word IMAGINE on his wheelchair had a Yankees game to his ear on a portable radio. “Wang’s perfect through seven!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. The little man on the bench was in full mackin’ mode, his right arm now firmly planted behind the top plank on the bench. I made an instinctive move to get up, but there was no further encroachment. The girl, stoically reading the book at first, was now smiling; pleased at the attention, disgusted by the source. “I do, but guys my own age,” I heard her mutter, shortly followed by “none of your business.”

Dr. Venture sat still, admiring the gall of this pudgy little man with no prospects to open his mouth to a woman without asking for loose change. The shopping cart crammed with trash bags parked next to him turned out to belong to a tousled couple who now claimed it. And then there was me, sitting on the bench, debating whether I am a writer who enjoys and collects these scraps of life, or the hero who eats them up.

Blair is Blair

Three cheers to Tony Blair, a true adherent of the great Anglo-American alliance, and one of the great leaders in modern history. Bohemigrant hopes his formidable legacy will stand the test of time--and tarnishing by Iraq.

And What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up, Little Boy?

I've mostly retired from asking rhetorical questions about media bias. But last night's debate among republican presidential candidates temporarily forced me out of my bearhole. Sorry, but I don't remember Obama or Clinton being asked to delineate the differences between a Sunni and a Shiite last week. Or Kucinich presented with an effigy of Bush to tar, feather, and quarter. Between the retarded questions asked by some snot-faced Politico.com editor and Matthews' Tourette-like maniacal stage-pacing, I wasn't sure if I was watching a pre-primary debate or a 5th grade spelling bee. The normally tame Matthews stalked the stage like a rabid chimp, trying to "stump" the candidates and squelch carefully scripted answers by cutting them off and trying to elicit controversial "Republican" positions on abortion, global warming, and evolution. I guess the democrats couldn't be bothered with such insipid screener questions, they are the party of nuance, after all. Imagine Sean Hannity moderating between Edwards, Clinton, Biden, and co. In fact, why don't we, since political debate has been degraded to the level of shameful soundbites?

Have No Fears, We've Got Stories for Years...

Bohemigrant is embarrassed to have missed the third annual Immigrants Week. But hey, we're assimilated! You can't expect us to catch wind of every OTB shindig.

What does trouble Bohemigrant is the recent degradation of The Sopranos. Now in its last season, David Chase has abandoned fidelity to his characters and building the more subtle strory arc of seasons past to rush the ending of the series. Tony the gambling addict? Tony the ugly husband? Paulie's "flashbacks"? More and more, Sopranos is putting distance between itself and superior drama like The Wire and Deadwood.