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December 31, 2010 - Januar y 6, 2011
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I Want To Kick Off The New Year As Someone Different Here’s the thing: Tonight is New Year’s Eve, and I’ve got nothin’. I mean, my husband Mark and I were invited to a few holiday parties, so I bought new clothes and shoes and makeup... but now I’ve run out of pizzazz. Oh, sure, I could go to the mall and get yet another sleek or glittery outfit and maybe some boots this time, but the truth is, my face is still the same. I want a new face. I think Mark would like it. I’d putter around in the bathroom for an hour or so, then dramatically throw open the door and here’s what he’d see — not me. I’d be blonde this time (still trying to determine whether they have more fun) with blue eyes and maybe even pierced ears. While I was at it, I’d pump up the bosom and flatten the stomach; maybe add two inches in height and the ability to walk on platform heels without teetering. He’d be breathless.
Deborah Welky is
The Sonic BOOMER And why stop there? Why not change my persona in general? I’d need a new attitude to go with my dynamite new looks. “Hiya, big boy,” I’d breathe, in a throaty sort of way. Then I’d waft past him in a cloud of perfume — not my regular perfume, the one that conveys “Debbie,” but some new exotic fragrance that conveys “Natasha” or “Clarice” or even “Markeesha the Amazon.” “H-hi,” he’d stammer as I wrapped one leg around him. Then I’d ask, “Are you ready to go?”
“Go where?” he’d choke. “You tell me.” By the time we got to the party, my dress would be rumpled, my hair in disarray and my skin dewy and glowing. (We’d stopped to get gas.) I’d do a quick touch-up, then exit the car one long leg at a time. Mark would open the door for me, and I’d sweep past him into the party like a Victoria’s Secret angel. Men would drop their drinks. Women would speculate about where Debbie was. And I would finally get to see how the other half lived. Oh, it’d be great fun. I’d wink at strangers, toss my head back when I laughed and, for once, do the limbo without ending up like an overturned turtle. My dress would be short, my earrings long and my energy unending. Men would take Mark aside and ask where he’d found me, and Mark would say,
“She just came out of the bathroom.” “The bathroom in your house?” “Yeah!” “Can I come over?” I’d make sure I introduced myself to everyone in the room, asking provocative questions about their careers, their hobbies and their love lives. I would gush about how interesting they were and express great disappointment when I had to move on to the next person. After several hours of drinking, dining and dancing, Mark would insist on taking me home. We’d collapse onto the couch, and he’d look deeply into my eyes and say: “You know, I didn’t mind the old Debbie. I kind of liked her.” And, one shower later, I’d be back. I’d climb into my footed cotton pajamas and curl up beside him and say: “I’m glad. Because that blond bombshell thing is really exhausting.”
‘How Do You Know’ Is A Movie Not Worth Your Time Or Money A good romantic comedy, unless done by Mel Brooks, should be as light and fun as a soufflé. How Do You Know does not pass that test. It sounds like it should be great. Its director, James L. Brooks, has done great work. He did the old Mary Tyler Moore Show and Taxi, as well as movies such as Terms of Endearment. But when you watch, you quickly realize that there’s really nothing there in this disaster of a film. The story focuses on Lisa (Reese Witherspoon), a softball player kicked off the U.S. National Team for being too old. She wanders around and is caught up in a relationship with Matty (Owen Wilson), a pitcher on the Washington Nationals. She even moves in with him. Then she meets George (Paul Rudd), a schlub about to be indicted for securities fraud actually committed by his father (Jack Nicholson). The holes in the plot (and there almost always are in romantic comedies) are so gigantic that a viable story just cannot exist. Matty seems attracted to Lisa mostly because she’s so self-involved that she doesn’t jump all over his faux pas. I mean, he has a drawerful of
Rosenberg
Tackeria Sale
continued from page 21 es.” They characterized the sale as a way to definitely save money, and the people as helpful and patient. Cathy Tankersly, who works at the Tackeria, was in a good mood. “This craziness is fun,” she said. “Everyone’s looking for good deals. I think the boots will sell the best. They usually go like hotcakes. And all the merchandise we have outside is marked down 50 percent to 70 percent. The store’s not that busy right now. A lot of people are at the malls, trying to get the door-buster sales. But they’ll find us. We’ll be busier after lunch, and tomorrow, this place will be a madhouse.” The store was busy but not packed. The boot section was hopping with people trying things on. People fingered coats, examined
toothbrushes for his sleepover women and sets of clothing for them to wear. The way someone in his lifestyle knows they’re in love, according to one of the few really cynical lines in the film, is when they start wearing condoms with other women. Rudd’s George might even be worse. He is so passive, a mirror might be needed to check on his breathing. It is clear from the start that his company is giving him the shaft. When his secretary Annie (Kathryn Hahn, in probably the only really “active” performance in the film) tries to tell him what happened, something that for some reason seems to be against the law, he avoids her. You have to like someone in a romantic
comedy, to want them to find love. Witherspoon plays the whole thing very straight. She is, I guess, the “straight man” for the comics around her. But aside from a whole group of slogans that sound like they come from a junior high school coach, she really has nothing to say. She moves in with Matty even though there seem to be no sparks between them. Her relationship with George is even stranger. Eventually he seems to feel he’s in love with her — a bit strange after barely doing anything at all with her. He seems to fit precisely into the old joke that women like men who don’t say much because they think they’re actually listening. The problem in this film is that the two men are only half-heroes, and two halves, in this case, do not make a whole. Wilson plays his usual ditsy self, not terribly bright and totally self-involved. Rudd’s character is basically a mess. Perhaps the best way to characterize the movie is to describe the ending, wherein Lisa and her choice for the future first stand and look at each other, then tentatively embrace at a bus stop. The bus comes, and no one is
left. And that describes the movie. Jack Nicholson basically just mails his performance in. Hahn is very sympathetic but is manic enough that the part does not fit the rest of the film. A good romantic comedy has to be light as a soufflé. This one simply is too leaden. There are few laughs. The whole affair comes across essentially as a situation comedy that just goes nowhere. Think of how you sometimes wonder how interesting characters in a show or movie get where they are before you’ve seen them or what will happen to them in the future. In this film, there is just no one to care about. This is probably not the worst film of 2010. But it might just make the list for the nominations. There are other movies around. Do yourself a favor and see one of them. Brooks will probably make other movies, and they would almost have to be better. The actors are all attractive and get a lot of parts. They will also certainly do better. Spending money on going to the movies for this is a waste of your money and, frankly, it is also a waste of your time. Better luck next time.
breeches, browsed through the aisles of saddles. Kids weighed the merits of various model horses. The mound of stuff had grown next to the man sitting quietly on the plastic mounting block. Debbie drove for an hour, all the way from Davie, for the sale. She found exactly what she was after: a pair of tall boots, a pair of shorter paddock boots, and tasty horse treats. Jennifer, from The Acreage, was a bit sad that nothing she especially wanted had been deeply discounted. Still, she managed to find a pink, breast cancer-themed saddle pad (“I’m just a believer”), a pair of reins and a fly mask. “I guess 10 percent off is better than nothing,” she said. People swirled around the store, examining, trying on, haggling over prices, sitting experimentally on saddles. And the man on the plastic mounting block sat patiently beside the ever-morphing pile of stuff. I was hooked. Who was this guy?
He was Dick, from Connecticut and Wellington, and he was guarding his wife’s finds. “I’m awaiting further instructions,” Dick laughed. “My wife, Cheryl, has four horses. They’re her passion. I just support them.” Just then, Cheryl showed up and handed Dick more stuff. The pile now contained a saddle pad, gloves, socks, a dressage whip with a touch of bling: pink rhinestones set around the handle. Then she was off again, on the hunt. “We got the postcard, and she started making a list,” Dick said. “How long have we been here? What day is it? Are we going to any more stores after this? I certainly hope not.” The crowd waxed and waned, more door prizes were given out, a few more trucks pulled up outside, and Dick waited patiently on his plastic mounting block, enjoying the day.
Dick sits on the mounting block, guarding his wife’s finds.
‘I’ On CULTURE By Leonard Wechsler