New York Loves Your Work

[While I’m sure everyone here is more than sick of hearing about I Love Your Work, here’s one last plug, copied from a recently sent email, that details our small celebration for the New York opening this weekend.]

Though the ‘official’ premiere is in LA, we’re celebrating the NYC
release of I Love Your Work, a film I and Cyan Pictures produced, this
very Friday.

For those who don’t know, I Love Your Work was directed by Adam
Goldberg, and stars Giovanni Ribisi, Franka Potente, Christina Ricci,
Joshua Jackson, Marisa Coughlan, Jared Harris, Jason Lee, Vince
Vaughn, Marisa Coughlan, Judy Greer and Elvis Costello.

The reviews from the LA opening are quite strong, with the LA Times
calling it “a highly stylized dissertation on the foibles of fame and
our inability to secure happiness in our present condition” and saying
I Love Your Work has its rewards for those up to the challenge of
tackling its nonlinear structure and brooding nature.” The LA Weekly
says “the filmmaking is actually quite polished, and Ribisi is
fascinating to watch ó his fluttery weirdness has never seemed more
grounded and resonant, turning Gray’s self-destructive egoism into
near tragedy.”

My own, brutally honest, appraisal is that the first two thirds are
excellent, while the last is less so, though at least, in the words of
E!, “always interesting, even when it stumbles.”

You can watch the trailer on Apple’s site.

The grand plan for Friday is to converge on the 7:00pm screening at
Village Cinemas East (181 2nd Ave at 12th)
. You can buy tickets in
advance
, as it may well sell out.

Then, post-screening (about 9:00, for those who can’t make the film
itself) we’ll relocate a few blocks east to Keybar
, 423 E. 13th between 1st and A, for celebratory drinks.

I’d love to see you there.

Fraternal Love

Dear David-

As my younger brother, you should know well that coming to New York for job interviews, staying with me, then taking naps in my bed while I’m working and thereby giving me your cold, is totally grounds for an ass-kicking.

Watch your back.

Love,

josh

Back and Forth: Notes from San Francisco [II]

Monday again? Where did the week go?

Actually, I’ll tell you where it went: to eating, eating, and more eating. I’m now five and a half pounds heavier than when I came out West. Given how much I eat on even non-Thanksgiving weeks, that’s a hell of an ‘accomplishment’.

Where it also went: to driving. Living in New York, I forget how much time the rest of the world spends in cars.

Still, there’s no better place to sing, to really belt something out, then alone in the driver’s seat, hurtling down the highway at 85 miles an hour.

Similarly, I listen to lyrics much more carefully while driving. I hadn’t previously realized, for example, that Sufjan Stevens’ Casimir Pulaski Day is possibly the most wrenchingly heartbreaking song I’ve ever heard.

And, somehow connected to that but not really, thank you Kate for the ‘Happy breakupversary!’ text message that totally made my week.

In between the driving and the eating, I was actually fairly productive. Some good investor meetings, and a chance to lock down our next Cyan / Long Tail hire.

Which reminds me of a quote I came across earlier this week, from management guru Tom Peters:

“Never hire a human being who had a 4.0 in college. If they had a perfect GPA, it means they bought the act and never screwed around. Now a 2.0 is probably not so good. But the ones who had 3.0, yeah! Those are the freaks you want!”

Also, while I didn’t do any Black Friday shopping, I did take advantage of a sale or two earlier in the week. Most important of which being one that led to the discounted purchase of a black velvet blazer with peaked collars and grey pin-stripes.

Hugh Heffner, step aside.

Back and Forth: Notes from San Francisco [I]

Off to California, again. I’d start telling people I live bi-coastally if it didn’t make me sound like a total douche-bag.

And, relatedly, here come a series of posts consisting of random notes I jot down during the trip on the index cards I carry everywhere in my right front pocket.

While such in-the-field notation allows me to pretend there’s something vaguely journalistic about the approach, I’m sadly aware that throwing unconnected tidbits together to make longer-looking post is, indeed, the lowest form of blogging.

Flying out to San Francisco, I tucked a flask full of 8-year barrel-aged rum into my Timbuk2 messenger bag. It did cause the TSA screener to pause the x-ray conveyor belt, but otherwise passed security without a hitch.

Thank you, JetBlue, for providing the other half of each of my in-flight rum and cokes. Thank you also for giving me an exit-row aisle seat. And, in particular, thank you for seating me next to Callie, a highly attractive (though not particularly intelligent) young blonde; for once, I didn’t mind having my seat-mate fall asleep on my shoulder.

Also, thank you JetBlue for getting me in to San Jose a full hour early. Seriously, a full hour. How does that work, exactly? The captain had someplace to be later that evening, so he just floored it for the whole five hours?

And, at the same time, lest you think JetBlue is without flaws:

First, wasn’t there a time when flight attendants (perhaps when they were still called ‘stewardesses’) were attractive?

Second, if JetBlue now boasts a 40-channel lineup, why is there absolutely nothing watch-able on my little back-of-the-seat TV?

My mother does this thing, when we travel, on the first day and the last day of the trip. “Can you believe we’re in Hawaii?” she’ll ask repeatedly, continuing, “we were just in California this morning.” Which my brother and I usually mock mercilessly.

Still, I sort of understand what she means. Early today, I’m deep in winter, walking barren streets just above freezing; this afternoon, everywhere I look the leaves are still green and I’m sitting in the backyard in a t-shirt.

Works for me.

Weathered

I remember, as a kid, being endlessly fascinated by vertical cutaway maps of the miles beneath New York City. Layer after subterranean layer, the parking garages piled atop subways atop water mains atop the electrical grid. I loved that each layer seemed to exist in silent parallel to the ones above and below. That each was its own little world.

I thought of those maps again this afternoon, climbing down the stairs to the C/E subway line. While the day’s suddenly wintry air whipped along the sidewalks above, thirty feet below, the stop was still, luke-warm, stale. And, as I passed into a waiting subway car, I hit yet another little weather system. Though, during the summer, the subways are brisk, ventilated by strong air conditioning, now, as the heaters are just put back into use, each car bakes slowly in its own languid cloud.

Nine years after coming East from Northern California, I’m still a bit unused to these manufactured ecosystems. Growing up, we had no air conditioning, only ran the house’s radiant heat during wintry nights. The difference between temperature indoors and out was usually, quite literally, a matter of degree.

But here, on the East Coast, the little worlds we create seem to operate in complete divorce from/ the larger one surrounding them. In the midst of summer, as humidity threatens to turn spontaneously into midair raindrops and the mercury clears 100, we push air-conditioners to full throttle, toting sweaters to the office to wear over short sleeves. In winter, we bundle layer upon layer to brave snow-bound treks, only to enter homes and stores so blisteringly heated we strip to near our skivvies the moment we clear the door.

Which, for years, always struck me as rather strange. But, today, as I rode the subway and thought of those cutaway maps, started to make a bit more sense. New York, after all, is nothing but a collection of separate little worlds, of sewers and cables and subways below, of streets and buildings and even taller buildings above. And while each might be intimately intertwined with the others, with so many all wedged in to such little space, we’ve no choice but to pretend they’re all separate, parallel, self-sustaining. No choice but, as the wind howls outside our windows, to crank the heat to full high in our little apartments, tied so tightly to the millions surrounding us, yet desperately, willfully, setting ourselves apart.

Useful Wisdom

From the Talmud, a collection of Jewish writings in the 1st and 2nd century:

Be very careful if you make a woman cry, because God counts her tears. The woman came out of a manís rib. Not from his feet, to be walked on. Not from his head, to be superior. But from the side, to be equal. Under the arm, to be protected, and next to the heart, to be loved.

Service Journalism

Continuing today’s trend of academic research with broad implications for real life, I share this helpful tip for female readers:

A study released this month by researchers at the Netherlands’ University of Groningen indicates that women are 30% more likely to achieve orgasm when they wear socks during sex.

My Life, Explained

A recent study at the University of Chicago determined that higher levels of procrastination predicts higher levels of consumption of alcohol among those people who drink.

Point / Counterpoint

“We die only once, and for such a long time.”
– Moliere

“Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.”
– Robert Frost